


Wilder Mind

by Politelycynical



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: College AU, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-02-19 10:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13122174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Politelycynical/pseuds/Politelycynical
Summary: MULTICHAPTER, COLLEGE AU: "Hey there, partner." His voice was deeper than she remembered it from the night before. When she spun around she noticed flecks of barely visible scars branching out on his left cheekbone that she hadn't seen previously.  He shuffled nervously from foot to foot. "I'm George Wea-" "Weasley.  Yeah- I know," she said shortly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Wilder Mind**

**By: politelycynical**

 

* * *

  

She was lugging the last of her crates up to her dorm room from her reliable 1991 Golden Volvo 940.  The dorm didn’t have an elevator, which would have been fine except she had been up and down the stairs about ten times, and she was on the fourth floor in Room 417.

As she kicked her foot out to catch the stairwell door that was slamming shut, she considered that she probably should have let her father drive her to school like he had wanted.

She just didn’t think she could handle him getting weepy on her _again_. So, she had told him that it was fine, and she could handle it.  She had assured him that she would call when she got there, right before pulling out of the driveway and seeing him in her rearview with tears in his eyes. 

She was exhausted.  Her father had splurged to get her a single occupancy dorm.  He knew her too well.  Hermione liked her privacy, and she liked the quiet.  They both felt that it was worth the extra money to keep her from getting expelled for having a temper tantrum on some talkative co-ed that didn’t know how to _hush_ during study time. 

Of course, the downside was that even though her room was fairly tiny, she was still able to bring far more than she really needed.  She had brought as much of her clothing as she could so that she would have more time between laundry days.  Then, she had stuffed her relatively large trunk with any of the books that she thought she absolutely needed ( _which was pretty much all of them)._

Needless to say, her arms felt like weak noodles after carrying box after box up flights and flights of stairs.

She stopped at the third landing, held her heavy crate up against the wall, and shook her arms out quickly before sighing and trudging up the final staircase of the night. 

The fourth floor hallway was largely deserted. Some students wouldn’t be arriving for a few days, and many others had already turned in for the night.  The fluorescent lights made everything look harsher and made her deeply miss her bedroom at home. 

As she passed the ajar door beside her own, she heard a girl’s sultry purr. “Gonna show me what you’re made of, Weasley?”

Hermione stiffened up in the hallway, her tired arms protesting loudly. 

_Was this a coed dorm_? She hadn’t meant to sign up for a coed dorm. 

She heard a man chuckle huskily.  “Oh, I’m going to make you beg first.”

Hermione couldn’t stop herself from peeking in through the open doorway.

He was tall with _obscenely_ large arms.His shirt was in the middle of the floor.  He yanked his leather belt recklessly out of his jeans.  It cracked like a whip as it was flung to his absent dorm mate’s bed. He grabbed the leggy blonde by her shins and dragged her to him across the bed, pressing his jeans against her panties and grinding against her roughly. She moaned loudly under him.

Hermione gulped but couldn’t tear her eyes away.

That is -until the girl’s eyes met hers.  “Excuse me!” she shrieked. 

He turned to her slowly, a predatory glint in his eyes as he sauntered to the door. His jeans were riding low on his hips.

He shut the door until the rest of the room was blocked. Her eyes trailed down his chest, devouring the manly happy trail that disappeared above his unbuttoned jeans.  His arms looked even bigger up close.  “Jessica doesn’t like to share.” His voice was low and gravelly with lust. “But if you want to wait in the hallway until we’re done, I’m sure I can _pencil you in.”_ He smirked. His thumbs were in his pockets, effectively framing his piece for her benefit.

She snorted loudly, suddenly shaken out of her stupor– what a berk.  “No thanks, Casanova.”

“Are you sure?  It won’t take long.”  He bit his lip, his eyes scanning down her body.

She raised her eyebrows and smirked at him.  “You’re advertising yourself really well.”

“What?”  He tilted his head.  “Fuck—I mean—that came out wrong.“

“Keep your door closed,” Hermione scolded him before turning on her heel without another glance and walking to her dorm.

“I’m not quick or anything, okay?!” he called after her loudly. “I can go all night!”

“Goodnight, Jessica!” she sang over her shoulder, cackling when she closed her door.

She dumped the box in the corner with the others, and quickly made her bed. 

Tomorrow she would get up, unpack a little, and then take a much needed shower.  Until then, she needed to sleep so that she would be fresh for class tomorrow.

As she settled into her surprisingly comfortable bed, her eyes closed almost immediately, exhaustion taking over her.

Two minutes later the headboard from the adjoining room started slamming into the shared wall in a steady rhythm. 

_Huh_ , she thought hours later. _Apparently, he really could go all night._

 

* * *

 

 

She was completely fucked.

Just so, so fucked.

That dickhead—that _Weasley_ had kept her up half the night, making _Jessica_ practically weep over him again and again and _again_. 

And— _AND_ —at 3:00 AM, the racket had finally— _FINALLY_ —stopped.   But, by four, she had heard giggles, a low rumbling, and then the _squeaking_ of a mattress _._

“Some of us have class in four hours, you asshole!” she yelled loudly, banging her fist on the asylum-white wall.

She could hear them laughing— _LAUGHING—_ after that.

The absolute nerve of some people.

Which was, of course, why ten minutes earlier she had awoken in a frightened panic to discover that it was 7:55.  She had rushed around her room, throwing her hair up in a skewed messy bun.  She’d quickly jumped into jeans and tossed a hoodie over the white shirt she had slept in.   She’d stepped into her shoes, pulling them over her heels as she’d dashed out of the door.

After that she’d been just a blur of messy hair as she’d run full-speed across campus.

She yanked the classroom door open.  She was breathless and her bun had worked its way halfway out of the elastic.

Professor Higgins sighed loudly. “Every year.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “There’s always one of them.”

The class was seated, staring at her.  She glanced at her watch—8:10. 

She was late— _horribly, horribly late._ This was a tragedy. 

Just a fucking tragedy.

“Professor, if I could just explain, there was this guy—” she sputtered, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

“Yes, I’ve heard it a million times, Miss.  I’m sure he’s just wonderful,” he started.

“No, you don’t understand—” Hermione interrupted.

“Take your seat, Miss...” He looked at her expectantly.

“Granger.  Hermione Granger,” she said quietly.

“Miss Granger.  Please sit down and stop wasting our time,” he scolded her coldly before turning back to the whiteboard.

She wasn’t going to cry.  She could handle a teacher not liking her.  Even one as illustrious as _Stewart Higgins_. 

Yeah.

She could handle that.

Her classmates hid smiles behind her hands as Hermione zeroed in on the only empty seat. 

It was really just her fucking luck.

_Weasley_ was looking up her, appearing well rested and put together in a teal hoodie and snug jeans.  He look up at her with a smile on his face.  He adjusted his hair nervously with his left hand before moving his book bag and pulling the chair out for her.

_The nerve._

She glared at him harshly, and he looked back at her in bewildered confusion.

She scooted the seat away from him pointedly, and reluctantly sat down in what was really her only option in terms of seating. Her back was ramrod straight as she tried to listen to Professor Higgins explain the syllabus.  Of course, it was a little hard to pay attention when the fury was pouring out of her in waves.

_How dare he?_

Just–

How dare he keep her up all night and then show up to class before her, looking like he had just slept ten hours?  She knew _for a fact_ that he didn’t go to sleep until 4:30 because she had stared at her bedside clock until her eyes were red the night before.

And— _AND—_ how dare he look at her like he didn’t deserve her wrath?  He deserved a hell of a lot more than an angry look.  He deserved much, much worse.

He was paying rapt attention and taking notes in the margins of his syllabus as the professor made addendums to the schedule and noted outside reading materials.

She didn’t even _have_ a syllabus, she thought grumpily.  The professor must have given them out when class started.

“Take note of where you’re sitting, because your table-mate will be your lab partner for the rest of the semester.”  Her eyes snapped up in horror. “No exceptions.”

No.

Weasley glanced at her warily as she seethed at him again.

“You’re all dismissed.  I’ll see you on Wednesday,”  Higgins said as he started to pack up his briefcase. 

The class filed out quickly, bottlenecking at the door. 

She approached the podium.  “Excuse me, Professor Higgins.”

He sighed loudly again.  She felt her stomach drop.  She was apparently a bother. “Miss Granger.”

“I’m very sorry that I was late.  I had a really bad morning, and I promise that it won’t ever happen again,” she told him nervously.

“I hope not.  Listen, Miss Granger.  I know that the first semester of college can be overwhelming, but you won’t make it if you don’t take your classes seriously,” he scolded her sternly.

She rushed to correct him.  “I promise, Sir.  I take school very, very seriously.  I overslept this morning because—”

“Please, I have heard every excuse you could possibly think up.  I don’t need to hear it.”  He sat his briefcase back on his desk and opened it.  He handed her a crisp copy of the syllabus.  “Try to be responsible, Miss Granger, or you won’t be in my class for very long.  Chapter One assignments are due next class.  I trust you’ll have them completed—or don’t, it doesn’t matter to me,” he said icily before leaving.

She couldn’t believe it.  She had planned this out for years. 

And now he _hated_ her.

Stewart Higgins.

_THE_ Stewart Higgins hated her.

She was supposed to be his best student and get the enviable T. A. position that he offered for only his best and brightest.

And now—now he completely loathed her.

She had fucked up her whole life—she would never get his recommendation, and in four years, she wouldn’t get into Rutgers for med-school. 

Would any med-school take her with mediocre recommendations?

Everything was just completely fucked.

“Hey there, partner.” His voice was deeper than she remembered it from the night before.  When she spun around she noticed flecks of barely visible scars branching out on his left cheekbone that she hadn’t noticed previously.  He shuffled nervously from foot to foot. “I’m George Wea—”

“Weasley. Yeah, I know,” she said shortly.

He smiled at her nervously, running a hand through his shaggy red hair.

She huffed loudly and snatched her bag off of the table.  She took a moment to cautiously deposit the syllabus that Higgins had graciously given her.  And then she stormed off.

“Hey!” George called out as he followed her.  “Granger, wait up!”

She shuffled down the stairs to the first floor hastily. 

His long legs won out over her shorter ones.  He reached out and touched her shoulder.  “Hold on—”

“You can take your hand off of me right now, Weasley,” she spat out as she spun around to face him, her hair wildly frazzled around her.  _He had ruined everything._

His eyebrows shot up.  “Um, I’m sorry.  Have I done something to offend you?”

She glowered at him, whispering harshly, “You know damn well what you did.” She stomped out of the building.

He jogged beside her across the campus lawn as she marched in the direction of her dorm.  She really needed to get back and have a shower—and get started on those assignments before her next class at noon.  “No, I really don’t,” he said, placing his _obstructive_ body in her way.

“Right, like it wasn’t on purpose.”  She shook her head furiously. 

“Mind letting me in on this little temper tantrum?”  George said harshly.  “Because as far as I’m concerned, you’re acting batshit crazy right now.”

“You ruined everything!” she yelled at him.  “He thinks I’m an idiot now!  All I wanted was—” Her voice shook.

No, no, no.  Not now.  Not in front of _him._

Large, heartbroken tears spilled out of her eyes before she could stop them as a sob made her body shake pathetically.

“Oh god.  What do I do?” He asked no one in particular as she wept in front of him.  He patted her on the shoulder awkwardly.  “There, there.  It’s going to be okay.”

She threw herself into his chest against her own will.  “You’ve ruined everything,” she said incoherently into his surprisingly soft hoodie, clutching him around the middle tightly.

“You’re legitimately crazy, aren’t you?” he mumbled as he rubbed her back stiffly.  “My lab partner is crazy.”

“I’m not!” she said snottily into the fabric.  “You’re an asshole,”  she explained to him.

He pulled back from her and held her at arm’s length.  “Hey, look.” She glared at him quietly. “I take offense to that, okay?  I haven’t done anything to you,” he told her.

“You—”

“I’ve done nothing,” George told her calmly.  “But you seem upset, so let me buy you a coffee.” He rubbed her arms.  “Would that make you feel better?”

“No,” she said simply.

“You want to at least _try_ to see if it makes you feel better?” He smiled gently at her, nodding at her in encouragement.

She sighed dramatically.  “Fine.” 

He placed a warm hand on her back and ushered her towards the campus coffee shop.   “Yeah, you just need some coffee and you’ll be right as rain, and then we’ll go over the syllabus,” George said more to himself than to her.  She trudged along beside him, dejected. 

The line was long, which bugged the hell out of her.  Crowds grated her nerves.

She was confident that she hated him.  His sweetness from the campus lawn aside, he had been a real asshole ever since she met him.  He had single-handedly destroyed years of planning in less than twenty-four hours. 

George stood in front of her with his back to the barista, rambling on and on about the workload in Higgins’ Chemistry class. 

She silently raised her eyebrow in response.  Two chapters a week was _nothing_.

She grabbed the useless elastic out of her monstrous bun, hooked it over her wrist and reached up, her white shirt pulling taut across her chest as she eased her fingertips through her tangled hair.

“I mean, reading a few chapters of a narrative—that’s one thing, but Chemistry?  I just don’t know—are you wearing a bra?” he gulped loudly.

“What?” she sputtered, “Of course I am, what a stupid—” She glanced down.  “Oh my god.”  She fumbled and ripped the zipper on her hoodie up as fast as she could. 

He averted his eyes innocently a second afterwards, having already seen everything he needed to.  “Right.”

“It was a rough morning,” she explained, her face bright red.  “Just—please don’t—just forget it?” she asked him, covering her face in shame as they queued forward.

He grinned widely.  “No worries, Granger.  I didn’t see anything.” He turned towards the front of the store, moving out of her way.  “Sure is a nice set though,” he added, smirking devilishly.

She spun around to tell him off when the barista interrupted.

 “Welcome to _The Beanery._ I’m—” She looked up at him and instantly whipped back around towards George.  “ _Hello, hello_ , Room 417,” he purred at her.  He leaned forward on the counter, his black button-up rolled up to his elbows and a green apron secured around his narrow waist.  “Fancy seeing you here.”

“You!” She pointed at him, before glancing back at George in bewilderment.  “But—but…”

“Ohhhhhhhhh.” George slapped his hand to his head.  “This explains so much.”

“Georgie!” Fred exclaimed happily.

“Morning, Fred,” he said, leaning against the counter lazily.  He turned to her as her sleepy mind tried to figure out what the hell was happening—of course it was obvious, but how—“Hermione, this is my twin brother Fred.” Fred tipped his imaginary hat at her.  “And Fred, this is Hermione Granger, my lab partner and apparently some girl you’ve wronged.”

“Aww,” Fred pouted.  “I hardly think I _wronged_ her.” He eyed her shamelessly.

“I thought you were with a blonde last night.” George tilted his head.

“I was.”

“He was! I didn’t—we didn’t—” Hermione stammered.

“And you thought you were embarrassed before about the—uh,” George joked before gesturing towards her hoodie in explanation.

Hermione gaped at him, her eyes narrowing significantly.

“Nevermind,” George said quickly. 

Hermione ran a tired hand down her face before looking Fred dead in the eye.  “You ruined my entire life, you asshole,” she whispered harshly to him, “and I won’t be forgetting it anytime soon.” She leaned forward to stare him down, threat shining brightly in her eye.

He laughed loudly at her.  “A little dramatic, don’t you think?  _After all,_ I offered to let you join in.” Fred reached out and ran a fingertip across the top of her hand.  She slapped his hand away from her. 

“Polite really,” George said dryly, shaking his head.

“I know!  I was going to let her have a go right after Jessica was done!” Fred snickered loudly. 

Hermione felt the rage bring tears to her eyes once again.  She was a mess, and she was tired—she was so, so tired…

“No, no, no, no. None of that again.”  George wrapped a comforting arm over her shoulder.  “He’s just joking, it’s okay,” he said soothingly. 

“But he—” She looked up at him with glossy, hurt eyes.  “Higgins,” she explained.

“I know, I know.” George patted her on the head.

Fred watched her with devious eyes.  “You could always come by later tonight—I’ll make you feel better, Granger.” His expression was drenched in unconcealed suggestion.

“Fred,” George warned him.  “Enough,” he snapped before turning his attention to her.  “He’s going to stop teasing you now, okay?”

She nodded up at him, leaning into his side.

“Fine,” Fred huffed.  “What do you guys want? You’re holding up the line.” He gestured to the angry customers behind them that hadn’t yet stormed away.

“I want a Caramel Macchiato with whip,” George replied as he rubbed her arm absently.  “Actually, make that two whips—like twice as much whip, please.”

Fred started to punch it into his cash register.

“You know what, just give me another cup with the whip,” George said suddenly. “And a spoon.”

“Do you still even want the coffee?” Fred asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m tired,” George said, glaring at him.  “I had to sleep in the TV room because of _someone I know.”_

Fred looked guilty. “I had a horny girl in my bed,” he said simply, as if it was a plausible reason to kick someone out of their own dorm room.

“Just shut up,” George growled at him.  He changed his tone when he turned to her.  “What would you like, Hermione?”

“A vanilla latte, please,” she said quietly.

“Want an extra shot of espresso?” George said, smiling down at her.

“That sounds lovely.” She looked up at him awestruck.

Fred pushed a few more buttons, and then George removed his arm from her around her to pull his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans.

“No, no—you  really don’t have to.”  She reached for her purse before he stilled her.

“I offered,” George reminded her.

“But you didn’t even—you weren’t the one that kept me up.  I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have been so mean to you earlier,” she said guiltily.

“It’s fine.  How could you have known?” George shrugged.

“Please, I insist.” Hermione placed her hand on his.  “Let me pay for both of them.”

George laughed.  “It’s fine, Hermione, really. But if it makes you feel better—” He dipped his hand into the tip jar on the counter.  “Fred can pay for them.”

“Oi!” Fred said loudly, glaring at his brother.

“Fair is fair, Fred!” George lectured him while he laughed wholeheartedly.

“Fine! God!” Fred grabbed some cups off the counter and looked at them deviously.  “Let’s see… a Caramel Macchiato—” He smirked while he marked the cup with a felt pen.

“Yeah… No.  I’d rather not drink your spit.” George pushed his arms down on the counter, leaned forward so that his legs came up off the ground and called out, “Hey, Ron! Come make my drink, will you?  Fred can’t be trusted at the moment.” Hermione watched his back flex underneath his hoodie. 

_Hm._ She quickly tore her eyes away.

Fred threw his hands up and walked away dramatically as Ron came out from the back of the store.

“I work here, by the way.  We all do, actually,” George said as he led her over to the pick up counter.  “This is my other brother, Ron.”

Hermione glanced at the other barista’s flaming red hair.  “I never would have guessed.” The corners of her mouth lifted slightly. Ron sat drinks down in front of them.

Ron nodded politely at her before disappearing into the back of the store.

George picked up both of their coffees.  “Let’s go find a table, study buddy, and go over this damn syllabus.”

“Yeah, alright,” she said as she followed him to a booth.

 

* * *

 

**Notes:** This is going to be a multi-chapter fic.  I’m thinking 10 chapters probably.  So stay tuned.  For the record, it hurt my soul deeply to make Fred a dick, but it had to be done.   Drop me a review.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

“It seems a bit much, right?” George scraped his spoon against the bottom of his whip cream cup, gathering the microscopic bits that clung to the plastic. 

Hermione took a large sip of her latte, copying the additional notes from George’s syllabus. “Well, what did you expect?” She tilted her head at him.

“What do you mean?” He put his elbows on the table and propped his chin up on his fist. 

“Higgins’ program is known for being difficult,” Hermione said carefully, lifting her eyebrow. 

George froze.  “What?”

“What?” she repeated back at him.

“Why would this be harder than any other class?” He gulped.

“Because it is!” she said shrilly.  “Why did you not research your teachers before registering?” Hermione resisted the urge to let her mouth hang open at his clear misunderstanding of the situation.

“Because I have a firm grip on my own sanity?” he teased.

She huffed loudly as he grinned at her.  “Well, then you should know that Higgins has one of the toughest programs in the country,” she said with pursed lips.

“But—”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Didn’t you wonder why you had to get all of those pesky recommendations?”

He looked confused for a moment before his lips slid into a well-practiced smirk.  “Right.  _The recommendations_.  The ones that were from other people.”

Her eyes widened.  She quickly glanced around the coffee shop as if looking for _spies_. “Did you—did you write your own letters of recommendation?” she hissed at him conspiratorially.

His mouth quirked slightly.  “Of course not!” he whispered back to her, looking scandalized.  “Do I look like I know how to pull letterhead off of the internet and write about all of my fictional accomplishments and volunteer work?”

_“Oh my god.”_ She gaped at him, outraged. “I worked on my portfolio _for years!”_

“I worked on mine for a like... Well, it was last Thursday night actually.”  George shrugged.  “After I closed the shop.”  He gestured to counter. “It took like _an hour.”_

“You just registered on Thursday?! _Last Thursday?_ ” She held a hand to her rapidly beating heart.  It was just so irresponsible.  My god, what if all of the classes had been filled.  What the hell would he have done then?

“Friday actually, I had to write all of those damn letters first.  But—yeah.  Higgins had the only Chemistry class that wasn’t full.”  George pouted.  “Ugh—and now I know why.”  He laid his head down on the cool table top, pushing his macchiato to the side.  “Oh god, how am I going to pass this class?” he grumbled loudly.

She glared at him.  “Well, it’s your own fault.” 

He raised his eyes up to her face, his chin still resting pathetically on the table. “Why are you being mean? I thought we were friends now that you know I’m not Fred,” he whined.

_Friends._

She smiled at him slowly.  She hadn’t ever really had a friend before.  There was Margaret Chan at her prep school, who had begged her parents to let her stay at the Granger’s over spring break during their senior year.  Her father was going to be out of town for a conference, and Hermione had bought candy, junk food, and chick flicks.  She had made sure that the pool was immaculate for their fun week. But when the time came, Margaret had informed her that she was going to a hotel with her boyfriend and if her parents called, Hermione needed to tell them that she was in the bathroom and then text her immediately so that she could call them back.

She had thrown everything untouched into the garbage can and spent the break reading from her father’s reference books and biting her nails so far into the quick that they’d bled and ached.

She glanced up at Fred.  He was chatting up a different blonde, who was teetering slightly on her too-high heels.  Jessica would be so sad.

George had been her savior.  He had taken up for her and even hugged her ( _awkwardly patted her on the back_ ) when she was being horrible to him. 

And wouldn’t it be nice to have a friend?

Like a _real friend?_ Not a Margaret-Chan-fake-friend, but someone who gave a shit about her.

“I’m sorry.” She bit her lip.  “I just—I spent all of my summers volunteering, and took all kinds of extra classes to get into this program.” She glanced down at her hands, eternally stained with ink. 

He propped his elbow back up on the table.  “That sounds awful.”

“I like the idea of being friends, though.” She smiled at him shyly.  “I haven’t ever—”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to finish her thought.

“I don’t really socialize much,” she amended tensely.

He grinned widely at her.  “Well, you have no choice now.  You’re stuck with me, Granger.”

She smiled sweetly up at him.  “Unless you flunk out, right?” she joked.

“Yes.  There’s always that.”  He nodded, sighing down at his syllabus again.

 

* * *

 

She collapsed in bed that night, feeling drained.  The rest of her classes had gone well.  She had run back to her room after breakfast with George, taken a quick shower, and had even managed to wear a bra to her other classes.  _Imagine that, s_ he thought wryly. 

It had been a horrible morning, but she felt giddy about having met George.  He had joked with her for the rest of breakfast and had thrown sheets of crumpled up notebook paper at his brothers’ heads every time they poked up from behind the counter.  After being pegged in the head numerous times, Ron had shouted obscenities at him that made Hermione gasp loudly.  George hadn’t seemed bothered by it though.  When they had left, George waved goodbye with his middle finger and walked her halfway to the dorm before heading to his 11 AM Intro to Renaissance Literature.

She looked up at the calendar that she had mounted on the wall.  Tomorrow she had four classes—a full load for other students, but she had taken seven courses for the fall semester.  She regretted it a little.  It was almost like she had no time to get settled in.  Her course load was going to be heavy, but at the time she was registering, she had thought it would be silly to limit herself to all Monday-Wednesday-Friday classes or all Tuesday-Thursday classes when she had the whole week to spread them around.

She had just closed her eyes when she heard not-so-muffled arguing through the paper thin walls.

“Are you fucking serious?” George said angrily.

“Serious about fucking.  Yes,” Fred quipped.

“This is my room, too, Fred.  You just kicked me out last night!  Can’t you guys just go back to Jessica’s room?”

“Her name is Emily.”

“Fine, Emily’s room then,” George pleaded.

“She has a roommate,” Fred said simply.

“Yeah, well, so do you!”

Fred sat down heavilyon his bed, the frame smacking the wall hard enough to make Hermione jump.  “Look—we agreed.”

“But—”

“It’s not _my_ fault that you’re not getting any play,” Fred reasoned with him.  “That’s your own fault, George.  There’s plenty of bountiful fruit just begging to be picked.”

“I’m busy!” George grumbled at him, sounding vulnerable.

“Right.  _Busy_.”

Hermione flushed brightly.  She quickly grabbed her phone off the nightstand and plugged her headphones in.  It seemed very private, and she probably shouldn’t know details about George’s sex life.  That wasn’t the kind of information one lab partner should know about another.

She scrambled to find some white noise to drown out their voices.  A moment later she heard a door slam. She pressed her cold hands to her hot face, trying to forget what she had just heard.  He deserved his privacy.

She drifted away shortly after listening to a two-hour loop of a thunderstorm. She tried not to think about how desperate George had sounded.

* * *

Her other classes seemed like preschool when compared to Higgins’ course.  Most of them involved reading one chapter per week and taking a ten question quiz during one of the scheduled classes.  She was further shocked that many times, students didn’t even show up to class unless a test was scheduled. 

In the past three weeks, she had managed to get her room unpacked, to keep her head above water in her heavy workload, and to make glowing first impressions with six out of seven instructors.  Given that Higgins was by far her most important teacher, she still considered this to be more of a loss than a win.

Three times a week, she and George would leave Higgin’s 8:00 AM Intro to Chemistry and would discuss their notes over breakfast, which meant that three nights a week, she would fall asleep with something to be excited about the following day. 

And on the days that they didn’t have breakfast together, she found herself straying to the campus coffee shop to get unnecessary lattes.  She wasn’t tired, and she didn’t feel that she had a particular addiction to coffee, but she liked going in there. 

That was how she found herself waiting in the short queue at six on a Saturday night.  Her heart sank a little when she saw that Ron was manning the register. 

Ron was _okay._

He was pleasant enough around his brothers, but tended to be foul mouthed and was willing to take the mickey out of someone to get approval from the crowd.  George had told her earlier in the week that Ron was in the process of pledging a fraternity on campus when Ron had worked a shift shirtless, his apron tied at his waist.

Fred had removed his shirt during the same shift.  He wasn’t pledging a fraternity, but insisted that it was to show solidarity. Fred had successfully obtained three phone numbers that night, one of which he sorted into the “would-bang” category.   She had confirmed via her smart phone that it was a health code violation, but her protests were met with snorts and eye rolls. 

George had chosen to wear all pieces of his uniform during that same shift.  Hermione admittedly would have been less concerned about the public health in his case, but showing off his skin for fuller tip jars didn’t seem to appeal to him.

“Welcome to _The Beanery_ —oh, it’s you again.”  Ron said gruffly, lifting an eyebrow.

“That’s a little rude,” she observed while squinting at their handwritten chalkboard menu.  “Do you guys have any fresh cookies tonight?”

Ron sighed.  “We have the ones from three hours ago.  I’m not making more.”

She pouted.  “It says ‘ _Baked Fresh Every Hour_ ’.” She pointed at the display.

He snatched the plastic sign off of the counter and tossed it somewhere below.  “Look at that, now it doesn’t.” He grinned at her.

“Fine—I’ll take two horrendously old cookies.”  She pulled exact change out of her purse.   “So,” she said casually as she handed him a crisp dollar and a neatly sorted stack of coins, “are you working alone tonight?”

“Yes.” Ron punched some buttons on the cash register. “And for the record, I’m not interested.”

“In what?” She glared at him.

“Whatever you’re fishing for. You’re not really my type,” he explained, putting two pathetic looking cookies in a small paper bag.

“Wow.” She shook her head. “Please rest assured that it never crossed my mind.  I was just making small talk—“ Her phone beeped.  “If you’ll excuse me, asshole.” She looked pointedly at his tip jar before stepping away to one of the booths away from the counter.

She opened her email app. 

From: Higgins, Stewart

To: Group - CHEM101 Section 3

Exam one grades have been posted to the student portal.  

-Higgins

Hermione felt a knot form in her stomach as she quickly logged into her account.  She tapped her foot nervously as the load bar on her phone inched forward at a snail’s pace. 

She grabbed one of her cookies and shoved the whole thing in her mouth, barely tasting it before she swallowed.  “Come on.  Load,” she urged.

_Load error.  Code 000809.  Please check with your system administrator._

“Ugh!”  she growled loudly, grabbing her belongings and stomping out of the coffee store without another word to Ron. 

She cursed at her phone as she briskly walked back to her dorm.  “Load,” she hissed at it.  “You worthless hunk of metal.”  She had the urge to hurl it against the concrete when she finally made it back to her building.  _“Dropping every other call,”_ she hissed as she rushed up the stairs, _“Can’t even load a freakin’ webpage.”_

She was out of breath by the fourth floor landing.

Hermione stomped down the hallway and walked briskly past the RA’s room, past the shower rooms, past George’s open doorway and then yanked her key out of her purse.  Just as she was poised to unlock it, she paused and took a few steps back down the hall.

George’s older laptop was sitting on his bed.  He was cradling his head in his hands with his shoulders slumped. 

She knocked quietly.  “George?”

He looked up at her, his face quickly becoming guarded.  He shut his laptop and smoothed his hair down over his ears.  His face was tinted red, making the barely noticeable white scars on the left side of his face become more visible.  “Hey.” 

“Did you see your grade yet?” she asked warily.

“Yeah.” He nodded tensely. “You?”

“My phone wouldn’t pull it up. I was just on my way to check.” She started to ask how he did, but from his body language, it probably wasn’t good. 

“I’m sure you did fine.”  He sounded mad.  She nodded awkwardly and stepped out into the hall again, feeling out of place and rude for interrupting him. 

Hermione unlocked her dorm and dropped her purse on the small desk.  Her laptop booted up quickly, the school’s home screen already loaded.  In seconds, she had logged in and loaded up the gradebook.

CHEM101

HIGGINS

SECTION 3

EXAM ONE

89/100

She glared at the screen. 

An eighty-nine?

Really?

A small knock at her open doorway made her whirl around, closing her laptop shamefully.

George stood in the hallway, his feet not daring to cross the threshold into her room.  He leaned casually against the doorframe and carefully ran a hand through his hair.  “How’d you do, partner?”

“Not as good as I would have hoped.”

“Yeah,” he sighed.  “Me neither.”

“You can come in, you know.” She raised her eyebrow at him. “If you don’t mind me asking, what did you get?”

He sighed again and crossed her room to perch on the edge of her bed. “Low.”

“Me too.” She looked down in disgrace.

“I got a 68.” He shook his head.  Her eyes widened.  “You?”

“Um—” What kind of grade did people normally get upset over?  What should she say? “I, well—I got a 77.”  She didn’t know what really compelled her to lie.  If she had gotten a 77, she would have been an inconsolable mess right now and would have locked herself in her room for a week.  But she couldn’t complain about an 89 when George had practically failed the exam.  She decided to soften the blow.

“That’s not so bad.”  He sighed and leaned back against her bed, his feet stretched out in front of him.  He looked uncomfortable and dramatic and _like a handsome boy that was sprawled out across her bed_.  “I guess you were right—I’m not really cut out for Higgin’s class.”

She stared at a small strip of exposed skin.  His t-shirt had ridden up the tiniest bit. 

Her brain continued to churn and process as her eyes darted over his form.

Wait. What?

“I didn’t say that!” she insisted, crossing the room to sit beside him as he covered his eyes with his inner elbow dramatically.  “This is just one test, George.  You can still pass!” 

“I’ve fucked up my semester. C’mon,  I can’t pass now.  This grade will pull me down for the rest of the term.  I may as well drop it now,” he grumbled in defeat.

“Don’t do that.” She placed her hand on his arm, and ignored how warm and _firm_ and _mmmmm_ he was. There were more pressing matters at hand.  “You’re my partner, don’t drop the course.”

He uncovered his eyes and rolled on his left side to face her.  “I need a 70 to pass the program, right?  How the hell am I supposed to manage a 70 when—”

“Which means that you need 700 cumulative points out of the 1000 that you can earn.  You’ve only sacrificed 32 of the 300 points that you can lose while still maintaining a passing grade.  That’s nothing.”  She looked at his lips briefly as he mulled it over.

God, he was in her bed. 

And also he was her friend.

Friend, Hermione.  He’s your friend—your only friend. 

_Cool your jets._

He smiled at her.  “You’re right—that doesn’t sound so bad.  And your 77 is even less bad.”  He nodded and sat up enthusiastically.  His crooked grin made her heart swell.

_Cool._

_Your._

_Jets._

_“_ Yeah.  My 77,”  she said nervously.  “We definitely need to do better next time though.  How long did you study?”  She got on her knees and faced the wall beside her bed.  Other students might have posters of their favorites bands like Green Day, The Gin Blossoms, or Semisonic.  Scummy guys like Fred Weasley had posters of scantily clad models straddling motorcycles. More cultured students (or at least those that wished to _appear_ more cultured) had cheap posters of Van Gogh’s Starry Night or Monet’s Water Lilies.

Hermione didn’t have any of that.  She had a color coded calendar that took up sixty percent of her asylum-white wall.  It broke each month down into 120-124 blocks of time, depending on the number of days in the month.  She started counting all of the green blocks. 

“Loads. All the time with you at breakfast, and I read over my notes for like four hours the night before the test.”

She paused her counting. “Breakfast doesn’t count.”

“Does too.”  He pouted.

“We barely even graze over the subjects.” She scoffed.

“Then… four hours.”

Hermione sat up straighter, leaning back with her feet tucked up under her bottom.  “You need to go over the material more than that, George.” She gestured to her calendar.

“This wall makes you look like a serial killer,” he quipped. 

She shoved his shoulder.  “Not nice.  I swear—you Weasley boys are so rude. Ronald was particularly annoying earlier.”

“Don’t doubt it.  What’d he do?”

“Apparently, he thinks I’m interested in him.” 

George’s eyebrows shot up.  “Are you?”

“No, but just in case I ever think about it, he assured me that I’m _not his type,”_ she said disdainfully.  “The hell does that mean?”

He shook his head.  “Don’t worry about it.  He’s been a prat since birth.”  He stood up and stretched his arms high above his bed.

Hnnng…  She gulped quietly.

“Welp, I’m going to turn in before Fred returns with his flavor of the week.”  He crossed her room and rest his hand on her doorknob.  “Hey, Granger.  How long did you prepare for that exam?”

“All weekend and most evenings.”

“Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hnnnnnnnnnnnnngggg is right.  For the record, not having smut in chapters is against my very nature.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione trudged up the stairs to the second floor of the campus library.  She loved going to the upper floor.  It had restricted areas with the older reference books and was almost always deserted.   The only room that ever got regular traffic was an AV room where people could watch VHS’s from the library’s collection. 

She would normally pick one of the small tables that was far enough into the stacks that she was guaranteed silence, but close enough to the restrooms that it was still convenient.

But not today.

She beamed.

Today, she had selected a table out in the open.  Because for the first time this semester, she wasn’t going to be studying alone in the library. Her table was right in the eyeline of both the stairs and the creaky elevator.   There was no way George would be able to miss it.  She took a seat facing the entrance.

Hermione took out her Chemistry textbook and flipped through the chapter that she had already highlighted and starred.  She glanced nervously at the watch that her father had gotten her for her birthday last year.   Ten to nine. He would come, surely?  He wanted to pass… so he would come.

A stray thought passed her mind that maybe that was the only reason George tolerated her; maybe he only wanted her help to pass the class.  Maybe at the end of the semester, he wouldn’t want to be her friend anymore. 

She shook her head.  This wasn’t high school, and George wasn’t like that.  

She looked grimly at the scratched up table and picked at her nails.

_He wasn’t like that._

The stairway door slammed.  She jumped, nearly yelping. She watched as George strode purposefully towards her, a drink carrier in one hand, and a large grocery bag bursting at the seams with potato chips and packs of cookies in the other.  He looked prepared to spend his Saturday studying, but…

She eyed the food and drink warily before looking at the clearly posted sign nearby that explicitly forbade it.

“Morning!” he said loudly. 

Hermione winced before replying, “Good morning, George.”

He sat his illegal items down and walked around to her side of the table.  He dropped his book bag on the floor, took the chair to her left, and pulled out his textbook.  He pushed one of the coffees toward her.  

She didn’t dare touch it. 

“So, where do we start?” He grinned.  

Her stomach flipped a little at the sight and she smiled back at him.   “Have you read the chapter?”

“Of course.” He pulled a pack of Oreos out of his grocery bag and ripped the top seal off.  The screech of the label tearing open filled the room like a sin.  

She placed an uneasy hand on his wrist.  “You’re really not supposed to eat in here, George,” she said carefully.  She hated that she had said it as soon as it was spoken.   But… it made her uncomfortable.  _There was a sign._

He cut his eyes at her, elbow on the table with his head propped up on his hand.  “I didn’t know you worked here,” he teased.

She looked down, dejected.

“Hey, I’m only joking,” he assured her.  “How about if we get caught with the food, I’ll make sure that I get all the blame?  Your record will be untarnished,” he suggested.

Hermione looked at him warily.  “I—”

“Okay, no—not that,” he openly pondered for a moment, tilting his head and tapping his chin with his pointer finger. “Oh, I know!” he said loudly, clapping his hands.

Hermione grabbed his hands quickly and hissed at him, “You’re also supposed to be quiet in the library, okay?  People are trying to concentrate.” 

He stared around at the empty second floor.  “What people?”

Hermione pouted at him.  “All of them.”

George smiled, clearly giving up.  “Anyways—how about this?”  He took the pack of cookies, stuffed it in his backpack, and then left it unzipped between their chairs.  He waited for her to meet his eyes, then looked cautiously both ways, snuck a hand down between them, and slowly pulled out a cookie.

He checked to make sure the coast was clear, used his body to shield it from prying eyes as he crept it upward, and then stuffed the entire thing in his mouth quickly.  “‘Ows tha’?” he asked before swallowing.

She stifled a laugh behind her hand.  “What about the coffee?”

“We’ll have to chug ‘em,” he said immediately.  “They’re fresh though.   You’ll probably burn your tongue.”  His teeth caught his bottom lip as he watched her.  He stopped suddenly and glanced at the pack of chips.  “ _Oh shit_ —I got this,” he whispered.  Georgetore his hoodie off and laid it on top of them.  The bag crinkled as he completely concealed it.  “Whew,” he said dramatically, wiping his forehead, “that was a close one.”

Hermione grinned at him before taking a careful sip of her coffee and then placed it back on the table.  Sure, she sat it near her satchel so it was somewhat hidden, but it _was_ just a coffee.  And it had a lid.   Even the scroogiest librarian would probably be okay with a coffee that had a lid on it.

George looked proud at her defiance.  Her stomach cartwheeled.

“Now—let’s make me smarter,” he said, still beaming at her.  

“Let’s discuss the different types of energy,” she began.   She flipped to a colorful chart in the book and began her lesson. 

George listened with rapt attention, occasionally grabbing a cookie from the bag.   Every time, his sneakiness became more obvious.  It was a distraction from the course material, but she found herself excited about what he might try next.  Fifteen minutes into their discussion on the Law of Conservation of Mass, he made her laugh out loud.

“Ahhhhh-chooo!” he bellowed with complete commitment as he masked the sound of the potato chip bag ripping open.   It quickly joined the cookies in his backpack. 

Being around George was… different.   She couldn’t remember ever having such an easy time with someone.  She wiped her eyes as she recovered from his new bout of ridiculousness.  

“Here,” she said, pulling a large stack of three-by-five notecards out of her satchel.  They were bound by a green rubber band.   This semester, green meant Chemistry.  “I’ll be right back.  You look over these while I’m gone,” she instructed.

George took them obediently and glanced at the top card before objecting.  “But this is from the first chapter.  We already took that test.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “Just because we’ve taken the test doesn’t mean that we get to forget it, George.   When you get one right, pull it out and put it in a different pile.  We’ll see how many points you have when I get back.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully, but began reading over them all the same. 

She smiled and walked the short distance to the ladies room.   When she was finished, she examined her makeup in the mirror, clearing away the smudges that were caused by laughing hard enough to cry at George’s antics. 

It was hard to wipe the grin off her face.  Try as she might, it just kept creeping back up.

As she approached their desk, she was proud to see that George was still reviewing her deck.  She grinned when he fistpumped quietly and placed a card triumphantly on his very small ‘knew it!’ pile.

His discarded hoodie still lay on the desk.   His arms looked… bigger today.   She admonished herself quietly.  How would she feel if George ogled _her_ every time she wasn’t looking?

She gulped at the thought.  She was much less conflicted about that situation than she would have originally guessed.

Hermione let her eyes sweep over the way his t-shirt clung to his torso for just a moment longer.  A spattering of scars along his upper arm from what she figured was a childhood injury were jumbled together with his untidy mess of freckles.  They formed an array in the field of stars before disappearing beneath the sleeve of his tee.

She licked her lips and ripped her eyes away.  “So, how many did you get?” she asked.  Her voice was just a little breathier than it should have been.  It came out much more sultry than what she had intended.   She knew she’d think about how mortified she was in that moment for years to come. 

However, George didn’t seem phased—he continued to flip through the cards completely unaware of her presence. 

“George?”  She stepped closer. 

He grumbled under his breath, repeating the answer to a card quietly.  He closed his eyes tightly in an effort to commit it to memory.

She felt like she was in the Twilight Zone for a moment.   She had once seen an episode of a late night show where a character died but didn’t know it.  They wandered around trying to connect with the people they cared for but got no reaction.   She shook away the feeling and then reached out to touch his arm.  “George?” she repeated.

He yelped, grabbing his chest before laughing.  “You really snuck up on me, Hermione, my god.”  He laid his head down and chuckled.

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling confused, “I said your name a few times.” She walked around him and sat down in her chair.  

George shifted uncomfortably.  “I was really focused, I guess,” he explained.

She shrugged it off.  “So how many did you get?” 

He thumbed through his “knew it!” pile.  “Uhhhhh… fourteen,” he said, “what do I get for fourteen points?” He held his hand out expectedly.

She grinned and reached between them, sneaking a cookie out of the bag and setting a single Oreo on his palm.

“My favorite!” he exclaimed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By noon, Hermione felt her eyes drooping.  She had explained the chapter in its entirety twice, then she made George explain it back to her.  He also had 62 flashcard points by the end of the day and had been rewarded with a few more of his own cookies. 

She laid her head on her textbook while George finished up his discussion on pH and then went on to detail the pH of various substances. 

“How was that?” George said through a yawn.

“Nearly perfect,” she replied, looking up at him and smiling.

“Nearly perfect is good enough for me.”  He stretched his hands up towards the ceiling and rolled his shoulders.  She silently took in every detail of the movement.

“Wanna get lunch? I’m buying,” he proclaimed.  He started packing up his stuff, and Hermione followed suit.

“You’re not buying.  You bought breakfast—or at least what I think was supposed to be breakfast.  It was hardly a balanced meal, but—”

“The chips were Garden Salsa flavored,” George pointed out.

Hermione picked up their discarded cups.  “And?”

“That means we count them as vegetables,” he insisted.

She smiled.  “No way.” She moved to place the empty cups in her bag.

George reached for her hand.  “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up,” she explained. 

“Just… throw them in the trash.” He pointed at the garbage can nearby.

“I will in a minute,” she said uncomfortably, “but not in the library.”

George snorted.  “Oh my god.” He ran his hand through his hair carefully.  “You’re concealing the evidence,” he hissed conspiratorially.

“Shush,” she commanded while she shoved the door to the musty staircase open.  Somehow the stairwell was perpetually wet, but it was better than the elevator, which lurched violently during the short trip to and from the second floor. _That_ _thing_ was a death trap.  She hoped the shiny new football stadium was worth the library being in shambles.

George trudged down the stairwell behind her.   She breathed a sigh of relief when they finally stepped outside.

“We got off scot-free!” George exclaimed sarcastically.

“Hey,” she warned.

He threw up his hands in surrender before putting them in his pockets lazily and grinning down at her.

After she felt they were far enough from the library, she skipped up to a garbage can and discarded the illegal cups.  She looked back triumphantly at George.  He smirked at her and opened his mouth to say something that would surely have been endearing but became distracted with a sight behind her.

She whipped around to see scantily clothed freshmen sporting togas and looking like they might collapse.  Older frat brothers sat in fold out camping chairs around them.  One blonde brother had a megaphone.

“Come on, boys!  Give up!  I want you to give up,” the blonde taunted into the megaphone. “Wanna know why?  I know that you’re not _worthy_ of being a brother!  I know that you’re weak.”

George sighed and walked towards the crowd of Greek Row idiots.

Hermione jogged a little to keep up with his quick pace. 

“What the hell is this?” George pushed through the throng of spectators.  As the onlookers moved out of her view, she realized what had caused George’s annoyance.

Ron’s eyes were red and unseeing.   His complexion was paler than usual, and his gaze was glassy.  He was swaying on his feet as the older brothers of _Alpha Sigma Phi_ laughed cruelly.

“Ron,” George called out, waving his hand in front of his younger brother’s face.  

Ron blinked tiredly at him.  “George?”

“What’s going on here?” George glared at the upperclassmen.

Ron yawned.  “It’s hour 23 of the second challenge.”  His voice sounded so small to Hermione.  He hardly sounded like the boy that had insulted her in the coffee shop a week ago.  He seemed like a little kid in that moment.

“Did I give you permission to talk, maggot?!” The ring leader tossed his megaphone in the lap of a fellow Asp, and sauntered over to them.

“Get him, Draco!” another Asp jeered.

Ron snapped to attention.  “No, you did not, Senior Brother Malfoy!”

Malfoy squared up to Ron aggressively, his nose nearly touching Ron’s. “Then drop and give me twenty, maggot,” he drawled, “and don’t half-ass them either.  Touch your nose to the ground.” 

Ron dropped down onto the grass and began his penance.

“Count ‘em off, boys!” Draco called out over his shoulder.

As the laughing mob counted, Draco turned to George and smiled. 

“What the hell are you doing to him?”  George growled at him. 

“We’re not letting them sleep,” Malfoy explained. “Isn’t it great?”

Ron finished his punishment and scampered up to his feet looking green.

“No.” George glared.  “It’s not great.  That’s my little brother you’re torturing.”  Hermione had never seen George angry before.   His shoulders were tense as he towered over the slim frat brother.

Malfoy laughed.  “Yeah, well if he’s tough enough, then maybe he’ll get to be _my_ brother.”

Ron beamed with pride.

George took a step toward the blonde, his fists clenched at his side.

“George,” she pleaded with him.  Hermione put her hand on his arm carefully.  He tilted his head toward her, looking worried and a little ashamed. 

“May I talk to him, Senior Brother Malfoy?”  Ron asked, glaring at George. 

Draco shrugged lazily.  “Make it quick, maggot.”   He paced down the line of pledges, zeroing in on a weak looking boy at the end that looked like he had reached his limit.  

“Get out of here, George.  This is none of your business,” Ron hissed at George.

“This game they’re playing with you isn’t safe, Ron,” George insisted. “If you think that I’m just going to—”

“I don’t want you here,” Ron said, “I don’t _need_ you here.”

George shook his head and looked at Hermione helplessly. 

She grabbed his hand and pulled gently.  “Come on, _maggot_.  Let’s go get lunch.” 

George chuckled at her.  “Hermione, you do not have my permission to call me maggot.  Wanna know why?”

She nodded.

“Because I would _never_ let someone publicly humiliate me like that.”  He looked at Ron. “In fact, I would be ashamed if I ever let _anyone_ treat me like garbage for something as stupid as being friends with the right kind of people.” 

Ron stared back defiantly. 

Hermione could tell that the matter wasn’t over.  Both of the redheads seemed to have more to say. But George held her hand and pulled her toward one of the campus cafeterias.  After they were out of sight of the Greek Row hazing, George dropped her hand and ran both of his hands down his face wearily before fidgeting with his hair.  It was a nervous tick of his that she had noticed a few times before.  

“He’ll be okay,” she assured him.

He huffed.  “I know that plenty of people pledge fraternities, get hazed, and come out fine… but he didn’t look well,” he explained, “ and I just _hate_ that it doesn’t even seem to matter to him,” he said, his voice breaking.  He sighed loudly.

George looked lost. 

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his middle.

He hummed in her ear as he hugged her back. “That’s nice,” he whispered.

She stepped back and smiled at him.  Her body tingled all over. “You looked like you needed it.”

“I did,” he admitted. He bit his lip, his ever present grin creeping back onto his face. “I seem to remember promising to buy you lunch.  C’mon.” He gestured towards the cafeteria.

“I seem to remember declining.”  Hermione started up the concrete steps towards the building.  “Actually,” she said marching with purpose, “ _I’m_ going to buy _you_ lunch.”  

George caught up with her easily. “We’ll see who buys who lunch.”

It was a challenge if she ever heard one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t mind me- I’m just swooning over that hug that they shared.  That was a sexy hug. 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Hermione sat her Political Science textbook down and gathered her monstrous hair atop her head in a messy bun.   She and George were lying on her ridiculously soft rug on the floor of her dorm room.   George looked up from _Goethe’s Faust_ and yawned, watching her fight with her disobedient mane.   He smiled, laid his book down on chest, and shut his eyes. 

They had taken to studying in her room the past week.  It had been raining steadily outside, and the trip to the library had become inconvenient.  Besides, Hermione owned a lot of the reference books that they occasionally needed and had plenty of space to spread out.

Of course, having George stretching out in the middle of her floor could be distracting.  Case in point, he had gotten off work on Tuesday, showered, and then showed up to her room in a superhero t-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts—skin warm and smelling like his shower gel. He had forgone shoes for the short walk around the corner from his dorm.  She had spent the night eyeing him whenever he wasn’t looking as he comfortably lazed about her floor and eventually cuddled up with her comforter _in her bed_.

It still smelled like him days later. 

“I _hate_ this book,” George whined.

She smiled.   “It can’t be too bad—it has magic and the devil as a main character, right?  That must be at least mildly interesting.”

He kept his eyes closed.  “But it’s poetry, and I hate it,” he grumbled.

“Ah well—I guess next semester, you’ll register a little earlier and won’t get stuck with an unsavory selection of classes, hm?” She grinned when he glared at her playfully.

Thunder rumbled loudly, shaking the old building as the rain picked up.

George marked his place and scooted _Faust_ away from him.  “Do you think we could get a pizza delivered here? I _want_ nachos—but you can’t ever get nachos delivered, and I’m _not_ going out in the rain.” He looked up at her, pouting.  

She shrugged, grabbing the takeout menus from her desk and handing them over to him. He was cute tonight.  Well—he was cute most nights, but tonight he was especially playful and lazy, and she was loving it.  He had dressed down today in a pair of thin black cotton pajamas and a heather gray shirt.

They heard the stairwell door slam closed and wet shoes squeaking halfway up the hallway before keys opened a lock.   People had been milling in and out all evening while the storm drizzled down upon the campus.  Hermione’s bedroom door was open to the hallway—as it normally was when George was hanging out in her room. 

Hermione gulped and willed herself to behave. Before this school year, she had never fantasized about anyone; she had definitely never considered herself to have a depraved mind.  But there was something about George that brought that out in her. She hid behind her textbook and tried not to think about what might happen if the door was closed and if she were a little braver.  She tried not to think about what a thin barrier those pajamas of his would be…

She jumped visibly when the stairwell door slammed again and looked at George guiltily, but he was still looking over menus, completely oblivious of her mental turmoil.

She could hear the click of stilettos against the cheap linoleum in the hallways and the faint echo of a giggle. 

No, no, no…

Right outside her room, they could hear keys clinking together and the wet sloppy smacking of drunken kisses.

George looked at her and grinned wolfishly as she seethed at the open doorway.  She facepalmed silently as Fred repeated the words that apparently worked with most girls on campus, “My god—you’re gorgeous.” His script was tried and true.  George snorted and kicked her door closed.

“He’s a great big twat,” George laughed and continued perusing the menus. 

The upside to Fred’s extracurricular activities was that any wayward feelings that Hermione had felt the moment before were completely extinguished.  There was nothing that killed the mood more than hearing some else getting up to no good.

“So—The River Grill delivers and has a ‘Taco!Burger’,” George summarized.  He was facedown on her rug with his elbows propping his head up. “What do you think?  Best idea ever or guaranteed food poisoning?”

“Let’s see.” She laid down beside him on her belly and looked over his shoulder at the description. 

A second later the wall banged loudly.   Honestly, she had known it was coming, but George’s head snapped towards their shared wall.  “What in the hell was that?” He glared at the wall. 

“Your brother’s bed frame.” Hermione yoinked the menu from him while he was distracted.

The frame knocked against the wall in a steady rhythm.

“My god!” George cringed visibly.  “Does it do that every time?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow from behind the menu.  “Yes.”

A moment later, like clockwork, the groaning began. 

“Gross! No!” George objected loudly.  He snatched his hoodie off her bed and pulled it on quickly.  “Let’s get the fuck outta here.” He slipped his sneakers on.

Hermione followed suit, pulling on her Keds and a hoodie.  “But you’re wearing pajamas—and it’s raining.”

“Who the hell cares?  _I’d rather die in this storm,_ ” he hissed dramatically. 

They abandoned their books for the evening and made a mad dash across the dreary campus to try their luck with the Taco!Burger.

 

* * *

Normally, the literature majors would at least be hogging all of the free electrical outlets and talking loudly about the novels that they were writing, but the coffee shop was surprisingly deserted for a Saturday night.

Through the windows, Hermione could see that Fred was sitting atop the counter, lazily scrolling on his phone.   A moment later, George walked out of the supply room with a large bag of whole beans heaved up on his shoulder. 

She stepped out of view quickly and pulled a small mirror out of her purse.   Her hair was holding up well. An online tutorial had shown her how to use a small barrel curling iron to get glossy, Old Hollywood waves.  She was pleased with the results. She smiled at the mirror, tossed it back in her purse, and then pushed the door to _The Beanery_ open.   The bell ringed merrily, announcing her arrival. 

Fred looked up from his phone and let out a low whistle.  

“Miss Granger, be still my fluttering heart,” he gushed.  “Hey, George!  Granger’s here,” he called out over his shoulder towards the back room.

He jumped down from the counter and grinned wolfishly at her. “Humana, humana,” he said silkily, leaning his elbows back against the granite and crossing his ankles.

“Stop it,” she said, blushing, and ran a hand nervously through her hair.

“Hey, Hermione.” George’s voice was disembodied behind the brewers.  When he finally appeared in her line of sight, he dumped another large bag of whole beans down on the counter before turning toward her. 

His jaw went slack for a second as his eyes widened.  “Wow.”

“Yeah— _wow_ ,” Fred echoed with a teasing smile on his face.

“You’re lookin’ fancy tonight,” George said.  His eyes swept over her again.  Her face felt warm from the attention as she stood in front of the cash register awkwardly and nervously smoothing out her berry red pencil skirt. George shook his head a little and then rubbed a tired hand over his eyes.  “So, uhhhh,” he took a pause and closed his eyes in concentration before continuing, “do you want anything?” He gestured to the menu.

“That’s rather forward,” Fred quipped.

Hermione ignored him.  She smiled at George and shook her head.  “N-No—” she stuttered, “I just wanted to come by and congratulate you—you know, on the promotion.”

George propped his head up on his hand and leaned his elbows on the granite countertop.  He grinned at her.  “It’s not a big deal.  Shift-leader.  It’s gonna be a lot more bullshit for not a whole lot of gain.” He shrugged.

Fred raised his eyebrows.  “He’s just being modest; he’s been power hungry all day.  ‘ _Fred, sweep the floors!_ ’” Fred screeched. “ _’Fred, get off your phone!’, ‘Fred, do your job!’_ ” He deadpanned.  “He’s a _nightmare_ now.”

“See what I mean?  About the bullshit?” George reiterated.

“You _shouldn’t_ be on your phone at work,” Hermione admonished Fred.

“Oh god—you’re where he’s getting it from—” He threw his hands up.

George chuckled.  “So, I get off at six,” he started, “and the lab is open until ten.  We could hit it up and get some of that practical experience you’re always going on about.”

Fred snorted. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” He waggled his eyebrows at Hermione.

“Hey, Fred,” George said tightly, “why don’t you go mop the back?”

Fred huffed and stomped towards the back of the store to get the mop and bucket. “Fine— _power hungry bastard_ ,” he grumbled. “ _Extra quarter an hour and now suddenly I’m your little bitch._ ”  His voiced faded out behind the swinging door.

“Sorry about that,” George said, “So—you in, smarty pants?” he asked, grinning. He dragged a knife across the top of one of the coffee bags and started getting it ready for the grinder.

She liked the glint in his eyes.  It made her nervous—but in a good way.  It was too bad…

“I can’t, actually.”  She smiled apologetically.  “I have dinner plans tonight.”

George stilled in the middle of scooping beans.  He met her eyes slowly with a very confused expression.

Hermione heard sneakers hitting the floor before Fred burst out of the back of the store, out of breath.  “ _My, oh my, that is interesting_.” Fred strolled up to the cash register and stood beside her.  She raised her eyebrows. “Oh sorry—I just happen to have overheard.” He smiled.  “I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything.” He took a deep breath. “Anyways!  Did you and your date get reservations?” he asked cryptically.

“Actually—”

“You see, that’s important on a Saturday.  Fancy restaurants are packed tonight—and judging from that dress, you’re headed to a fancy one, right?” He cut his eyes at George, who shook his head and silently scooped beans into the grinder.

She opened her mouth, but didn’t get a word out before he continued. 

Fred tossed his arm over her shoulder.  “You see, Hermione, it’s all about _timing_ ,” he said matter-of-factly.  “I was discussing this with George just the other day.  Now— _I_ did not know this,” he admitted, “but according to George over here, _timing_ is very important.  It’s important for you and your date tonight to get into a restaurant,” he explained, “and it’s important for dating in general.” He tilted his head at George, who glowered back at him.  “Apparently, something as simple as asking someone out to dinner and a movie needs to be handled with the utmost care and precision.” He tutted and shook his head. “It’s almost as if _you need the planets to align_ just to do something as simple as making a move—”

The grinder roared loudly, drowning out anything Fred said after that.  George held the button down and watched Fred pointedly.  Fred shut his mouth and stared back at George wryly.  He huffed, dropped his arm from her shoulders, and waited with his jaw clenched. 

George turned the grinder off and silently messed with some of the settings.  “Good luck, Hermione,” he said quietly with a small smile, “on your date.”

Fred snorted humorlessly.

She smiled uneasily.  “Um—It’s not a date,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m going to go eat steak and watch _Raiders_ … _with my dad._ ”

“Oh,” George said, a smile breaking out on his face.

“ _Oh_ ,” Fred repeated with a smirk.

“Yeah.” She looked between the two twins trying to figure out what the hell was going on with them.  “ _Annnyways_ ,” she sang awkwardly, “I told him to pick me up here.” She turned to Fred. “So be cool,” she warned.

“Why are you looking at me?!” Fred objected.

“Because you’re _horrible_ ,” she explained, her eye twitching.

George laughed.

“Then why the hell would you bring your dad where I work?” Fred stomped his foot.

She glared. “Because there are certain _illicit activities_ that occur not five feet from my dorm room that I’d rather not subject my father to,” she explained icily, “and because I did not know that you were working tonight.”

“And the RA on the second floor got busted for dealing reefer,” George added, loading up the grinder again.

“Yes—and that,” Hermione agreed.  “So, you two will be on your best behavior?  Or will I be forced to wait for my dad out in the front of the store in the cold?”

“It’s like 70 degrees outside, drama queen,” Fred said, rolling his eyes.

“We’ll behave.   After all, Fred will be busy mopping.” George winked at her when Fred growled at him.

“Fine!” He marched through the swinging door.

George laughed and walked around the counter to the front of the store.   He gestured towards one of the booths, and they sat down across from each other. 

“So, special occasion?  Your dad doesn’t live in the city, right?”  He propped his head up his hand lazily.

Hermione shook her head.  “No—on both counts.” She looked down at her hand while she fidgeted. “Our house is like two hours away.  He’s just here for the night,” she explained.

“Hm,” George hummed, eyeing her.

“We just miss each other,” she clarified. “It’s always just been me and him, and now it’s just him.  I guess living in our house by himself can be a little lonely.”

George looked thoughtful for a moment.  “What about your mom?” 

“Oh”—she shook her head—“she passed away when I was a baby.”

George covered one of his eyes with a palm.  “I’m so sorry.  I shouldn’t have asked—“

Hermione laughed and placed her hand on top of his on the table.  “No, no—it’s fine.  I never even knew her. So it’s really not a big deal.”

“You don’t have siblings?” he asked. 

She shook her head.  She eyed their clasped hands quietly.

“That must be quiet,” George said tilting his head.  “I can’t imagine.  Of course you know Fred and Ron, but what you might not be aware of is that I am one of seven.”

Hermione whistled.

“Yeah—so I can’t even really imagine living alone, you know?  There’s always been someone there.  And being a twin—we were always together.” He smiled, watching her while she listened intently.

There was that look again.  He glanced down at their hands. Her breath hitched when he ran his thumb along her palm before meeting her gaze again.

The bell above the door dinged loudly.  Hermione pulled her hands back quickly and whipped around.

“Where’s the birthday girl?” her dad sang out into the empty store.

She looked back at George guiltily.

He gasped quietly looking scandalized before smirking at her.  “You lying liar!” he hissed at her. 

“I’m over here, Dad!” Hermione said, sliding out of the booth.  George followed suit as Leonard Granger turned towards them.

Hermione’s father was much more personable than his daughter, but like her, he could be Type-A when the occasion called for it.   He was a surgeon with a quick wit and a sharp tongue.  Hermione admired her father, and he had always been an attentive parent.   Even with a tough job, she had never felt that she had missed out by only having one caretaker.  He simply loved his daughter enough for two.

He was also one of the most embarrassing people on the planet.

“It’s yo’ birthday, Hermione,” he sang, “we gon’ party like it’s yo’ birthday.”  All the color drained from her face as she watched her father in horror.  He even went as far as to do a little dance.

“Oh my god.” She shook her head while George hid a smile with little success.  “Dad… no…”

Leonard cackled before eyeing George.  “So, who’s this then?”

George grinned. “George Weasley, sir.”  He reached out and shook Mr. Granger’s hand.

“Leonard Granger,” he introduced himself watching George with sharp blue eyes before turning to Hermione, “Is he your—”

“My lab partner,” she clarified tensely.  My god—it took him less than a minute to completely embarrass her.  It was record-breaking humiliation.

George’s mouth dropped open.  “Your lab partner?” he repeated, looking outraged. “We are _much more_ than that!” he insisted.

Leonard narrowed his eyes.

George cracked a smile at Hermione.  “We’re total BFFs. Hermione, you wound me.”

She grinned back at him.  “Alright—yes,” she agreed, “BFFs.”

George scoffed.  “Or maybe we’re not?  After all ‘ _it’s yo’ birthday’_ ,” he said, grinning. “I straight up asked if you two were celebrating anything tonight, and your daughter over here _lied to my face_ ,” he told her dad.

Leonard grinned.  “That’s rude,” he scolded her playfully. “I didn’t raise you like that.”

“It’s just not a big deal,” she explained, shaking her head at both of them.

“ _To my face, Hermione_ ,” George repeated, gesturing to his face wildly. “Liar.” George gave her a comical side-eye, “And it absolutely _is a big deal._ I mean, on my birthday, my mom makes me very special birthday pancakes,” he explained quickly, “and it has never happened, but if I _ever_ have to suffer through my birthday without my special pancakes— _I will_ _lose it_ ,” he said very seriously.

“As you should.” Leonard nodded. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Hermione,” her father teased.

“Stop ganging up on me,” she whined.

George pursed his lips playfully, “You know what? Fine, but only because,” he paused dramatically, “ _It’s yo’ birthday_ ,” he finished with a smirk.

“It’s whose birthday?”  Fred shouted from the back, poking his head from around the brewers.

“It’s Hermione’s birthday,” George called back to his brother.

Leonard did a double-take at the sight of Fred.

“Happy Birthday, Granger!” Fred yelled out before going back to mopping.

“Thanks,” Hermione answered weakly.

“Ummm.” Leonard pointed at the back of the store. 

“I’m a twin,” George explained. 

“Got it,” Leonard replied.

The bell dinged up front and Ron walked towards the back without a glance in their direction.  Hermione met George’s eyes.  He shook his head subtly.

“Anyways, I’m sure you two need to get going,” George said, untying his green apron and laying it up near the cash register. “ _Raiders_ and all that.”

“Yes, _Raiders._ My Hermione’s favorite.” Mr. Granger glanced at his daughter very seriously for a moment.  “Would you like to come?  You’re welcome to.  We’re going over to Mulligan’s Steakhouse.  My treat,” he added before stage whispering, “I’m going to get them to sing to her and everything.  She’s gonna hate it, and it’ll be great.”

George laughed.  “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Granger, but I couldn’t impose on the two of you,” he insisted.

“It would be totally fine,” Hermione said, “and your shift is over now, right?”  She looked down at her watch.  “It’s after six.”

“You’re correct,” George said, “I’m off the clock, but you guys haven’t seen each other in a while, and I can’t interrupt father/daughter time.” Hermione opened her mouth to object.  “I’ll come along next time.”  He nudged her with his shoulder gently. 

“Alright,” Leonard acquiesced. “Good to meet you, George.”

George shook his hand again.  “And you too, sir.”

George walked them out, and they said their goodbyes.  George continued along the campus sidewalks towards the dorms, and Hermione followed her father to his car.

 

* * *

Mulligan’s was tradition. 

They discovered the steakhouse on her sixth birthday when they had come to the city to go to the aquarium, and they hadn’t missed a single birthday since.

After they ordered, Hermione sipped her soda while her father dove into the usual questions.

“How’s school going?” he asked, smiling kindly at her.

“It’s fine,” she replied.  “It’s been an adjustment, I think.  More of one than I thought it would be, but everything is getting easier now.”

“And the illustrious Stewart Higgins?” Leonard asked, taking a sip of water.

“Brilliant, but a little dryer in person than in his papers,” she said carefully.

“Not what you expected?”

“He’s very...” she paused and mulled over her answer. “He’s cold.  And tough.  But he’s sharp as a tack, and I feel like I’ve learned a lot already from being in his class.” She played with the discarded paper from her straw.  “I think his program was a good decision.”

“Good.  I’m happy,” Leonard said. “And your other classes?”

“They’re easy,” she explained. “They are nothing compared to Higgins’ class.”

“But you’re having fun though, right?” he asked her carefully.

“I’m fine,” she assured him.

Leonard steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and watched her. “I’m serious, Hermione.  You need some balance in your life.  You can’t just”—he paused—“you can’t just ignore everything else except for school.  Part of going to college is figuring out who you are.”

She shook her head. “This… is who I am, Dad.”

Leonard nodded quietly.  “I just don’t want you to spend your life so consumed with academia that you end up alone.”  He sighed.  “You haven’t dated anyone since—”

“I don’t want to talk about him, Dad.  I don’t want to talk about Cormac,” she demanded.

“Okay, okay.  We don’t have to talk about him,” he surrendered, “but I would like to talk about your coffee shop friend though.”

“Subtle segway,” she observed wryly.

He grinned.  “Do I need to set another place at Thanksgiving?” he teased.

“We’re not like that,” she said, feeling unsure. 

“Seemed like you might be,” he said, testing the waters.

“George doesn’t really date,” she said, looking at the table. “He’s busy—he’s in Higgins’ program, too, and he has a job.”

“And?”

“And even if he did—I’m not his type, I don’t think,” she told him.

Leonard’s eyebrows furrowed.  “And why do you think that?”

She sighed. “He’s—His twin brother Fred dates—” she paused.  _Dates_ was really a strong word for what Fred did with girls. “Fred dates these girls that are tall and blonde and _gorgeous_.” She looked down at her ink stained hands. “And if George’s type is anything like Fred’s, then…”

“Hermione,” Leonard said, his eyes full of concern, “You’re—”

“I don’t fit the bill,” she told him, “a-and I’m okay with that.  Because I’m busy, too.” 

“Hermione—”

Leonard was interrupted as the wait staff poured out of the back of Mulligan’s, clapping and carrying a cake with a sparkler blazing out of the top of it.

 

* * *

The trip up four flights of stairs was particularly heinous in heels.  She considered taking them off, but wasn’t sure when her last tetanus shot was and didn’t want to risk lockjaw.

The rest of the night had gone smoothly.   She’d smiled and laughed with her father.  They had watched the great Henry Jones thwart the Nazis on the big screen, and by the end of the night, she was getting less concerned looks from her dad and could finally relax.

Hermione shoved the stairwell door open and let it clang behind her.   Weeks ago, she would not have thought that the harsh lights of the dormitory could have ever feel like home.  But here she was, four weeks into her first semester, and positively giddy that she was going to get to curl up in her dormitory bed after a long day.

Her eyes narrowed at a lone figure sitting on the floor by her room.   George had his Chemistry book in his lap and was reading silently.  He looked tired, dressed down in gym shorts and a plain blue tee.

“Oh, no!” she called out. “Again?”

George’s head snapped up.  He looked confused for a moment before laughing.  “No, Fred didn’t kick me out.  I just didn’t want to miss you.”  He sat his book down beside his door and stood up.

She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow.

He grinned.  “See, you didn’t really give me a whole lot of time to get you a present—”

“George—”

“I wanted to, okay?” he insisted, “and besides—I do what I want.”  He crossed his arms petulantly, daring her to challenge him on it. “Anyway, you’re gonna love this— _maybe_.” He looked nervous. “Actually, you might be a little pissed about some of the ethical choices that I made to make this present possible, but um—”

“George.”

“I mean it’s not like I stole or pillaged anything, but there was definitely some bribery on my part,“ he gestured around wildly.

“ _George_.” She laughed at him.

He grinned at her.  “The present is in your room. I bribed the RA to let me in.” He made his ‘yikes’ face while he said it. “I hope that’s okay.”

She smiled.  “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“You ready, birthday girl?” He watched her intently.

She nodded.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered.

She complied, her breath hitching when she felt him draw closer to her.  She heard her bedroom door click open. George grabbed both of her hands and led her into her room.  Her heart hammered in her chest.

He walked behind her and whispered into the shell of her ear.  “Keep em’ closed.   I’ll be right back.”

She nodded, breathing heavily.

She had no idea why this felt so intimate, but it did.   Him guiding her.  Her trusting him.  It was all very overwhelming and _thrilling._

She felt him walk by her again.

When he spoke next, he was in front of her. “Alright, you can look.”

She licked her lips and opened her eyes slowly. 

The lights in her room were off. George stood in front of her with a single cupcake and a solitary lit candle.  The candlelight danced across his features in an orange, ethereal glow.

Then she noticed that her bed wasn’t where it used to be and neither were her shelves.

“You switched them,” she said, smiling.

He grinned, biting his lip.  “Well, yeah—I didn’t realize before how loud it must be when Fred is— _you know_ ,” he laughed. “I switched us, too.”

She looked confused.

“Me and Fred—I switched sides with him.   Now you’re as far away from him as you can be.”  He put a hand on her bookshelves that were pushed up against their common wall. “And now I’m right here.  I’m on the other side.”

“This must have taken forever,” she said, feeling guilty.  “I mean, I know for a fact that the bed was _bolted to the floor_ , and my shelves are solid and _heavy as hell_.” She shook her head. “And you really didn’t have to—”

“Pish posh,” he grumbled.  “If you hadn’t hid your birthday, it would have been better.  _Next year_ , it’ll be better.”

“But—”

“Hermione,” he said quietly, the candle light still dancing across his face, _“you deserve to be celebrated.”_

In that moment, Hermione realized she had lied to her father.  She wasn’t _okay with it_.  It mattered to her; _George_ mattered to her. 

_Despite the realization, her heart soared._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much all justcourbeau and I have been talking about for the past week or three. So, reader, what do you think is going to happen next?


	5. Chapter 5

 

For Hermione, the two weeks that followed her birthday had been sweet, sweet hell.

Sure, he was a distraction _before_. From the first moment that she had met him, Hermione had known that George was a very lovely picture of masculinity.  He towered over her whenever they stood in line together.  She always felt very aware of just how much larger his frame was compared to her own.  Quite a few times, she had become fixated on his arms when they were lazing about, reading their textbooks.  Even at rest, his biceps were well defined, and the corded sinews of his forearms were prominent.  Admittedly, the thought of him moving her furniture around had gotten her just a little hot and bothered under the collar.   Had she been able to _watch him_ move everything around, that birthday present would have been a dream come true.

So, yes—George was physically very distracting and had led her to realize that she was just like everyone else—depraved and full of hormones.

But now—

Now, he was _everything_ , she thought wryly.

Realizing just how deep her infatuation ran had been its own hell on earth.

Now, George was shared Christmases.   He was meeting each other’s parents.  He was late nights cuddled up watching movies, and he was early morning giggling beneath soft linens.  George was lazy Saturdays filled with trusted whispers, breathy gasps, and _pleas for mercy_.

Or at least… now she knew that’s what she _wanted_ him to be.

So in short, things had changed for her.  Her reality of what she wanted from him and what she felt about him had changed.

But to the everyday observer— _nothing had changed._

Because he didn’t know.

Higgins stood at the front of the lab droning on about intramolecular forces and kinetics.  George sat in the back row beside her with his goggles already on, swiveling in his chair.  He side eyed her, his eyes appearing larger behind the lenses.

She hid a smile.

“To summarize, I want everyone to use the utmost care with today’s experiment.  If you haven’t read the chapter,” Higgins paused and looked pointedly at George, “are you listening, _Mr. Weasley?_ If you haven’t read the chapter, please use this time to do so, and you can makeup the lab this weekend.”

George furrowed his brows and pouted at her from behind his safety goggles. Hermione frowned and motioned meaningfully with her head towards the front.

“Sir, are you talking about the section that details the properties of each intramolecular force? To a name a few: ionic, hydrogen, the van der Waals dipole-dipole interaction, and van der Waals dispersion forces, also known as London forces; or are you talking about the section—” George counted them off on his fingers, looking smug.

“Alright, alright,” Higgins acquiesced, “just get to work, Mr. Weasley.”

“Up top, Hermione.” George raised his hand and waited for a high-five.

“Proud of you,” Hermione said, meeting his hand gently.

Hermione fired up the Bunsen burner and went through their materials checklist.

She felt George come up behind her.

“I think we need to make it hotter,” George muttered into her ear.  She felt the vibrato of his baritone all the way down to her toes.  He was looking over her shoulder at the burner.  Warmth was pouring off him in waves.    

She felt a shiver trail down the back of her neck.

“Oh yeah?  Y-you think so?”  she stammered, mentally kicking herself.

“Uh huhm,” he hummed, his thumb dragging slowly down the outside of her arm on its path to the fuel knob.  Somewhere deep in her belly, her insides clenched at the feeling of his fingertip trailing across her skin.

She watched his hands fiddle with the fuel setting and licked her lips.   He had very nice hands.

George coughed. He smiled at her in confusion before using his pointer finger to slide the materials list his way.  “You alright?  We need to get started, slacker,” he teased, his eyes full of mischief.  His teeth grazed over his bottom lip.

“Uh huh.  I’m fine.  I was just—thinking about something else.”  She hoped she didn’t look as guilty as she felt.

The rest of the lab went without incident.  By the time George worked through the control test and was setting up the first variable, she had managed to fend off the images that her very vivid imagination had conjured up and locked them away for a more appropriate time.  For the rest of the lab, she had taken a more active role in the process.  By the end, they had successful results and detailed notes with a mixture of her textbook cursive and his haphazard scrawls.

“I’m sure that I don’t have to remind you that Friday is the midterm,”  Higgins said, looking bored. “The exam will begin at eight sharp.  At 8:01, the door will be locked, and you will be out of luck.  Is that clear?” He didn’t wait for a response.  “Good.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 “I think that we should shift around our schedule.  If we swap Saturday morning’s Chemistry block with Thursday night’s Humanities block, then we’ll have more time to cram for the test,” Hermione said, flipping through her color-coded planner.   “Does that sound okay to you?” she prompted before sipping her Frappuccino.

She could faintly hear Fred and Ron roughhousing in the back of the shop.  Their deep voices and the sound of squeaky sneakers echoed across the emptying store.

“Whatever you want, oh captain my captain.” George smiled at her.  “Are you worried?”

“Of course, I’m worried,” she said with wide, bewildered eyes. “You’re not?”

He messed with his hair and shook his head.  “I feel very prepared.”

Hermione scoffed, “Well, I don’t.  There was that whole appendix in Chapter 6 that Higgins said we could skip over and now I’m wondering if maybe that was a trick—what if the entire exam is on that appendix, George?” She chewed at her lip nervously.

She turned and watched Ron start to sweep up the dining room.  The morning crowd had thinned considerably.  His face was flushed from wrestling with his older brother only moments before.

“That’s not going to happen, Brainiac.” He smiled, crossing his arms on the table and resting his chin against them.  “We got this.”  His blue eyes twinkled in the mid-morning light.

Ron propped his broom and dustpan up against a chair and leaned down to wipe out a booth.

“So,” she said, easing into the topic carefully before whispering, “any progress with you-know-who?”  She pointed with her head towards a booth near the front of the store.

George shook his head and smiled sadly.  “No.” George shrugged almost imperceptibly.

“Well—have you talked to him?” she pried, closing her planner and putting it away in her satchel.

George stared down at the table. “He just gets mad.” Ron started sweeping again.

Hermione dropped her voice lower. “Have you tried talking to him about something other than how you think he’s wrong?”

“Hermione,” he whined.

Ron moved towards an adjacent table.

She gestured towards Ron subtly.

George shook his head.

She nudged his foot.

He nudged back.

She narrowed her eyes and kicked him decisively in the shin.

He yelped and grabbed his leg, scowling at her.  Ron glanced at them.

“ _I’m sorry_! _I’m sorry!_ ” she whispered.  “ _That was uncalled for.”_

George lifted his feet up in the booth beside her warily, crossed them at the ankle, and pouted quietly.

“You got this,” she mouthed, rubbing his shin remorsefully.  He took a deep breath and gave in.

“So, Ron,” George started, looking tense. “How are things?” he asked awkwardly.

Ron lifted an eyebrow. “I’m fine,” he grunted in response.  He eyed the duo doubtfully.

“Good!” George said in a much higher pitch than normal.  “That’s just great! So—did you...” he trailed off and looked at Hermione helplessly.

She urged him with her eyes.

“Did you get into Omega… Gamma… Tri… _Tripod_?” George said, looking very unsure. Hermione facepalmed with both hands and shook her head.

Ron furrowed his eyebrows and propped his broom up.  “Alpha Sigma Phi,” he corrected.

“Yes—that.  Did you—”

“Yeah.” Ron looked annoyed and uneasy.

“That’s awesome.” George flashed a small smile. “They’re treating you right?  Not making you drink from the toilet or anything?”  Hermione cringed and whipped her head around towards the younger Weasley.

Ron huffed.  “Look— they only do that shit to thin the crowd out.  There’s only so many rooms available for new pledges, and that stuff just weeds out the weak ones, you know?” Ron explained quickly, avoiding George’s eyes.

“Yeah—yeah. I get it,” George said, backstepping a little.

“I still have to get some of the legacy brothers coffee every once in a while.” Ron laughed a little. “But that’s not exactly a foreign concept for me.”  He gestured to the store.

George grinned.  “Of course not.”  Hermione rubbed his bruised shin absently.

“You can quit worrying,” Ron insisted.

“I know—you have it all handled.  I’m sorry for getting into your business,” George replied, swallowing a few objections down.

“Good,” Ron said, eyeing Hermione as she continued watch the scene play out quietly.

“Good,” George agreed.

A tense silence settled over all of them.  Hermione sipped her drink.  She winced when her straw gurgled at the bottom.

“Well—I’ll just get back to work.” He waved and picked up his discarded items.

George leaned his head back on the booth and grumbled, “That was fucking horrible.”

“Yes it was.”  Hermione nodded her head before flashing a smile at him.  “But it’s over now!”

George grinned back at her.  “Hey! Why did you stop petting me?” He glared playfully, wiggling his legs. “Need I remind you that y _ou_ _kicked me?”_

She flushed.  “I wasn’t _petting_ you—”

“Hey,” Ron called out as he crossed the dining room with a piece of paper in his hand.  “I don’t know if you would want to, but the Alphas are throwing a party after midterms.  And you should totally come.”

He sat a photocopied eyesore boasting brain-numbing thrills on the table.

_Gross_.

“It’s gonna be a rager,” Ron explained, “Everyone is ready to blow off some steam, you know?”

“That sounds fun.” George nodded, taking the flyer. “Thanks for the invite.”

Ron glanced at her. “Oh right—and you can come too… I guess,” he added as an afterthought.

“We’ll be there!”

Hermione’s jaw dropped.  Ron smiled brightly and said his goodbyes a little less awkwardly this time.

She pursed her lips as Ron got out earshot. _“We’ll be there?”_ she hissed. _“_ I am _not_ going to a frat party _.”_

George quickly swung around the booth and slid into the seat beside her.  “Please?” he begged.

“Absolutely not.”  She crossed her arms. “There will be drinking and—AND sex and drugs,” she rambled. “ _I_ will not be a part of that.”

“You’re exaggerating,” George scoffed.  Hermione raised a manicured eyebrow at him. “There might not be…drugs,” he said with little confidence.

“Fine—maybe there won’t be drugs _at a frat party. Sure,”_ she spat, “but there most assuredly will be drinking, and _in case you have forgotten,_ we’re underage.”

A slow smile spread across George’s face. “You may be underage, but I’m not.” He watched her carefully.  “I’m 21.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.  “Oh—you are not.  You’re a freshman.”

He continued grinning obnoxiously.  “Yeah—I started college late.  _How could you_ not know how old I am?”  he said, his voice light and teasing.

She huffed. “You’re right.  I should have IDed you when we first met.  While we’re on the subject, how tall are you and what’s your blood type?” she asked dryly.

“Six-three. A-positive,” he answered quickly, his mouth quirked at the side. “What did you think exactly?” he continued, “Did you think that Fred, Ron, and I were triplets or something?”

She glared at him quietly.

“Fine, fine,” he surrendered. “I just didn’t realize we were strangers.”

She looked away from him and glowered out the window, her arms still crossed.

“Anyways!” George was unfazed. “Don’t make me go to the party alone,” he whined.

“Why should I go?” she asked the window.

“Because Ron asked us to come, and because he’s been giving me the cold shoulder for weeks.  And I’m not really sure that those dickheads are on the up and up,” he explained earnestly. “We need to investigate.”

“Okay—that’s why _you_ need to go, but why do _I_ need to go?”  she asked, eyeing him petulantly.

“Because you’re the one that wanted me and him to make up.  C’mon, Granger.”  George reached up and cradled her head, his fingertips just barely lacing into her hair, his thumb brushing lightly along her jawline. “It’ll take thirty minutes—one hour tops.”

“I don’t—” She gulped.  His eyes were so blue, and his hand was so warm, and he was so close—

“We’ll just hang out all night, keep an eye on Ron, and make fun of a bunch of frat-bro idiots,” he argued his case with wide, pleading eyes.

“Fine—but if you ditch me, I’m going to be super pissed,” she warned him.

George beamed at her, scooting in closer to her in the booth and propping his feet up on the seat across from them.   “That’s never gonna happen.”

 

 

* * *

 

She muttered quickly under her breath—definitions and formulas running through her head and spilling out of her mouth.   This was it—all the preparation had culminated on this exact moment.

And she was freaking the fuck out.

Her hands were shaking, and her chest felt tight.

It was fifteen minutes to eight, and Higgins wasn’t even in the room yet.  Actually, no one was there yet.

Oh god—was she in the right room?  Her eyes darted over to the plaque on the door.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief before cradling her head and trying to remember every detail about the Appendix at the end of Chapter 6 that she had speed read the night before.

She could feel a migraine coming on, her head threatening to split open violently at any moment.

Her cognizance in her frantic pre-midterm state must have been very limited.  She didn’t notice him until his arms had wrapped around her shoulders from behind.  He bent his tall, muscular frame at the middle and leaned in close. “We got this,” he reminded her with a whisper, his breath tickling the shell of her ear and making her shift in her seat.  The smell of George’s particular brand of soap was intoxicating and comforting.

Hermione leaned back into him and let his warmth wash over her.  “Thank you,” she said quietly, closing her eyes.

Her breath hitched when his lips grazed her jawline.  It was a little too low to be a friendly kiss on the cheek, his warm wet breath making her ache deep within her abdomen.

“See you after,” he said, walking backwards for a second with a wicked grin on his face to the other side of the room.

“Good luck, George,” she called out weakly as other students filtered in.

Well—at least she wasn’t worried about the test anymore.

 

* * *

 

She sat on her bed with one leg tucked under her, refreshing her screen every few seconds.   They took the exam yesterday—when was Higgins going to get off his ass and post her grade?  She clicked harder.

“Ready?” George called out from the doorway.

When she looked up, he was leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, looking lithe and effortless in a dark brown leather jacket.

“Almost.” She tore her eyes away from him and clicked refresh. The online gradebook still had a small yellow icon beside the test that said _Pending_.  She sighed and clicked again, glaring.

“C’mon, Hermione.  We need to get going.” He strolled over, took the laptop, and set it on her desk.

“But—”

“It’ll be there when we get back.”  He took both of her hands and walked backwards to the hallway.  “You did great, I’m sure.”

She let herself be led out of her room with a worried glance back at her computer.

He opened the door to the stairwell and said, “M’lady.”

She hid a smile and walked past him to the fourth-floor landing.

“Fred’s coming,” George said as they began their trek down four flights of stairs.

She paused and looked back him. “Doesn’t that mean that there’s no need for me to go now?”

George pouted at her, his eyebrows furrowing.  “ _No_ , it does not mean that you don’t have to go.” He ran a hand through his hair.  “We have an investigation to conduct, and Fred is going to be chasing skirts all night.” He stuck his bottom lip out at her.

“Alright, alright,” she conceded, “I was just checking.”

Outside of the dorm, there was a nip in the air.  She pulled her hoodie a little tighter around her and followed George to a bench where Fred was waiting on them. 

“Well, well, well,” Fred tutted lightheartedly, “look who's ready for a wee bit of underaged drinking.”

Hermione glowered at George when he snorted.  He smiled while he patted all his pockets.  “Fuck,” he grumbled, “I forgot my phone.”

Fred winced. “Sure you need it?”

“Yeah—I don’t want to get separated,” George groaned. “Be right back.”

Hermione watched George jog back to the dorms helplessly before turning to Fred.  He scooted over to make room for her and patted the seat beside him. “Already warmed it up for ya, Granger.”

She glanced once more back at the building before plopping down beside Fred dejectedly.

“Thatta girl,” he quipped.

“Evening, Fred,” she mumbled.

He laughed and looked her over. “The hell are you wearing?” Hermione looked down at her outfit. “Do you even know where we’re going?”

“The Alphas’ party,” she answered, trying to figure out what was wrong with a Star Trek emblazoned tee under a hoodie, skinny jeans, and Keds. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s a frat party, Granger,” he said as if the conclusion were obvious. “You’re about to enter campus breeding grounds.”

“So?”

He laughed.  “So, lovely ladies like yourself can improve their chances whilst on the prowl by showing a little skin. Not wearing a shirt that I’m sure doubles as pajamas most nights for you.”

She looked down at the Starship Enterprise.  _He was right_.  She did wear it to bed an awful lot.

“Then again,” he said smoothly, crossing his ankles and cradling his head back into his laced hands, “it’s completely possible that you plan on leaving with who you came with, hm?”

“That is an unfounded accusation, Fred Weasley.” She crossed her arms.

“Rubbish,” he objected playfully, “Your mouth says no, but your _everything else_ is hoping George finally makes his move tonight, amiright?”

 

She stared back quietly.

He grinned.  “Who knows?  Maybe he’ll surprise us both, and he actually will.”

Footsteps signaled George’s return. “Good luck tonight, Granger,” Fred whispered conspiratorially, punctuating it with a wink.

 “Got it,” George grumbled while trying to catch his breath. He waved his phone at them.  “Next year we’re getting something on the first floor.  This is ridiculous.”

They all started walking towards Greek Row.

Hermione tried not to read too far into what Fred had said.  Sure, she had moments with George here and there, but she didn’t have a whole lot of concrete evidence to go on in terms of whether or not George reciprocated her feelings. 

To Fred, she could have been anyone.  Despite George’s protests, Fred had tried to set George up all semester with every random coed that showed the least bit of interest in him.  In Fred’s eyes, she was probably just another convenient girl to throw at his brother.

“So, we’re all clear on the plan for tonight, right?” George had his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Absolutely,” she answered immediately.

“Wait—what plan?  What are we doing?” Fred asked, looking confused.

George spun around.  “Are you fucking kidding me?  I explained the purpose of this party to you for about an hour earlier.”

“In the cafeteria?” Fred tilted his head.

George nodded tensely.

“There was a brunette in the cafeteria wearing a skirt that went down to about her belly button,” Fred explained.  “So uhh—catch me up on this plan.”

George sighed as he trudged along.  “We’re going to look in on Ron and make sure that he’s not in any trouble.”

“Oh, you’re on about that still?” Fred scoffed. “Ron is fine, mummy.”

“You didn’t see him that day.   He would have let them do anything to him just to make them like him.” George shook his head.

“He’s fine,” Fred repeated. “New plan,” he said, tossing his arm over Hermione’s shoulders, “I’m gonna get Granger here nice and drunk, soften up that uninviting edge of hers.”

“I’m not drinking,” she stated, shrugging his arm off and stepping away from him.

“Bollocks—it’s a party,” Fred said, bewildered.

“She doesn’t have to drink if she doesn’t want to,” George said before crossing behind Fred and standing in between them.

“But—”

They fell silent when Greek Row came into view in the distance.  The Alpha Sigma Phi house was a sight to behold.  Students were already half lit and milling about the immaculate lawn.   A boy with sandy blonde hair was bent over the begonias, heaving up his first few drinks of the night.  A sorority sister with an angular jet-black bob, long legs, and heels sharp enough to kill someone was sitting with a group of equally beautiful girls on the porch furniture, laughing at the unfortunate undergrad. It was utter chaos at every turn, with more people than Hermione had ever cared to be around filling every nook and cranny of the presidential brick building.

Upon entering the snakes’ den behind the twins, Hermione was nearly trampled by two roughhousing frat brothers.  She moved out of the way unscathed, her arms akimbo with a scowl on her face. “Oh my god,” she hissed.

It was a nightmare.  Bodies writhing around and music that had so much bass that the walls of the old building rumbled with every beat.

She tried to get out of the way, but there was nowhere to go, and there were just so many people.  She saw Fred push into the crowd and panicked when George moved to follow him before he tossed a glance her way.  He grinned at her and backtracked.  He turned his back to her and put her hands on his hips like they were in a conga line.  “Let’s try to stick together, kay?” he said loudly over the pounding music.

In tandem, they pushed through the crowd and trailed after Fred before he could disappear.  She could feel everyone else pressing in on her, smelling like cheap liquor and too much perfume.  The fire marshal would probably be very eager to hear about the blatant violation that was occurring at Alpha Sigma Phi.   Hermione fell into a closer step with George, letting her fingertips grasp at the front of his leather jacket.

When the dancefloor was finally behind them and the crowd started to thin, the kitchen came into view.  Large bowls that had initially held a feast of snack foods were picked clean.  The frat brother charged with alcohol and mixers must have gotten a lion’s share of the party funds because amber bottles of every shade and shape were spread out across expensive cherry end tables and every inch of counter space.  Washtubs slick with condensation were filled to the brim with ice and glass bottles of beer in various varieties.

Hermione eased her white-knuckle grip on George and took a deep breath for the first time since she had entered the house.  George guided her to a corner in the kitchen and leaned against the countertop beside her, effectively blocking her off from the crowd as she straightened herself back out. He propped his elbows up behind him. Fred was surveying the room with a sharp eye.  “So, step one of the plan, Granger.”  He gestured towards the wide assortment of contraband.

“Step one of the plan is to find Ron,” George reminded him with grin.

Fred stomped a foot. “Not your mother-hen plan, Georgie.  Now don’t interrupt,” he scolded, shaking his finger at George.  “Today, Miss Granger, we will be discussing the _Laws of Liquors_.  So, please pay attention,” he said, charismatically demanding their attention.

“Do we really have time for this?” Hermione eyed him grumpily.

George smirked at her with his canines showing.  “Actually, I’d love to hear this.  Sounds like a bunch of bullshit.”

“Alright—lay some education down on me, Fred,” she requested.  After all, finding Ron in this crowd meant leaving the kitchen, and she was still in the process of calming down from the dense dancefloor.

Fred looked excited, clearly expecting her to put up more of a fight. “Excellent!” he walked over to a set of square bottles with blue and silver labels. “Over here you have your tequilas.  Now, initially you’re going to think that tequila is the nastiest thing you’ve ever tasted, but don’t be so quick to judge, Granger.”

He held up the bottle, displaying it for all to see.  “A well-mixed margarita can be one of the most delicious cocktails out there, and it’s normally a safe order even in a dive bar.   Tequila has some very interesting effects on mere mortals, though—so take care to drink it in the right setting,” he warned. “The key side-effect is bravery.  A healthy dose will have you dancing up on a bar à la _Coyote Ugly_ and itching to undo a few buttons.  In fact, the one and only time I have seen Ron karaoke involved a well-timed shot of tequila right before _We Are the Champions_ came on.”

Hermione grinned at the thought.  George snorted, “Freddie Mercury ain’t got nothin’ on Ron in the right mood.”

“Moving on,” Fred approached cloudy white bottles, textured up the sides with bubbled glass. “Over here, you have your gins.  Gin is commonly mixed with tonic water to create a crisp and refreshing—you guessed it—Gin and Tonic.” He turned to her quickly before continuing. “If you’re feeling a little fancier, you can substitute the tonic for a splash of vermouth, a little olive brine, and a plump green olive.  That’s a martini.”

“Martinis are a tricky fellow, though.  One minute you’re enjoying your first drink feeling like a blue-blooded noble with unbound class and sophistication. By the end of your second, you’re wondering when the world turned sideways and holding onto the floor for dear life.  So, use caution, my friend.”

“Will do,” Hermione said with a small smile. “What’s next?”

George chuckled, crossing his arms and leaning towards her. “You’re encouraging him.” She shrugged and scooted up closer to George.

Fred caught her eye for a second and winked, before gesturing to the cylindrical, clear bottles with red wax stamps on the front.  “This, m’dear, is rum.  Rum is arguably the most versatile of the liquors.  It mixes with absolutely anything.  Fruit juices are common mixers, resulting in your Mai Tais, Hurricanes, and Screwdrivers.   Rum and Cokes are good too.  In a pinch one time, I mixed it with a Sprite and was delightfully surprised at how delicious it was.”

George grimaced visibly at the idea, shivering all over.  Hermione hid a smile.

“Remember this, Hermione. Rum does one thing and one thing only: _it makes you horny_.” She gulped.  Fred grinned wickedly. “And _that_ is why rum is my favorite.”

“Of course, my recommendation for your first foray into the lovely world of alcoholism would be a nice Rosé.” He leaned against the counter across from them and looked through the open doorway to the crowded dance floor. “You seem like a pink wine kind of girl.”

“What kind of girl is that?” she said, feeling self-conscious.

Fred became distracted by a swinging set of hips. “What?” he said a moment later.

“Nevermind,” she said, shaking her head.

“Well _—_ it’s been great, lads, but I’m afraid I can no longer ignore the ancient call of the drums.” Fred grabbed a beer, twisted the top off, and walked up to the edge of the writhing bodies.  “See you tomorrow,” he called out over his shoulder.  “Good luck, Granger!” he said as he disappeared into the throng.

She blushed and shook her head.  George grabbed a beer out of one of the tubs of ice and wiped away the leftover condensation.  He twisted the top off.

“What are you doing?” she asked worriedly.  “What about our investigation?”

He sidled back up to her. “This is a prop, Hermione.  We need to blend in _—_ look inconspicuous.”

She nodded.  “That makes sense.”

“You need a prop, too.” He eyed her playfully.

“George, what kind of girl drinks pink wine?” she asked quietly, tilting her head.

He smiled, teeth grazing his bottom lip.  “The kind of girl that doesn’t go to frat parties.”

Her stomach flipped, and a thrill poured through her at the sight of his sweet smile.   Maybe today was the day; tonight was the night.  Like Fred had said, maybe tonight George would surprise her.

She jumped at a loud bang in the entrance of the kitchen.  Ron poured out of the crowd, grinning widely.  “Hey!” he said happily, “you guys made it!”

George sipped his beer.  “Yeah, of course.   Fred’s here too—somewhere.”

Ron glanced at Hermione.  “Are you not drinking?”

_Oh right—her prop_.

“Not yet.  I’ll just—” she trailed off and turned around toward the table of mixers that housed red cups, sodas, and fruit juices.  That would be a safe choice.  She just needed a cup and whatever was in it would just be her little secret.  The rest of the party goers needn’t know that she wasn’t drinking.

George watched her with a smile while he distracted Ron.  “So, this is crazy.  You live here?” He gestured to the vaulted ceilings and expensive adornments.

She filled her cup with ice and perused the selection.

“Yeah, it’s great,” Ron slurred, “I have a shitty roommate right now, but next year I’ll have my own room.”

Oh, they had tea.  She unscrewed the lid, filled her red cup up, and grabbed a straw.

“That’s cool!” George said enthusiastically, “You know, I would love to have a look around.”

“Definitely.” Ron grabbed a few beers, stashing them in his pockets and under his arm before he tossed his arm over George’s shoulder.  “C’mon, Bro.  I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Hermione slid in beside George, looking down at her drink.  She wasn’t sure what kind of tea they had in Long Island, but if it was anything like Earl Grey, she was bound to like it.  George held her other hand as Ron pulled them deeper into the belly of the beast. 

As expected, the next room was wild and disorderly pandemonium.  Everyone was yelling, the music was maddeningly loud, and a couple was feverishly kissing on one of the expensive-looking chaise loungers.  The girl was straddling the eager boy.  Hermione’s eyes widened.  She wasn’t even sure that they were only making out.  A lot of grinding was happening, and she could see the blonde girl’s panties, her skirt having been shoved up above her hips.  She averted her eyes and gave them a little privacy, even though they certainly didn’t seem to require it.

She sipped her tea and grimaced.  It was so sweet.

 “This is the den. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but this is normally study central.  It’s a quiet zone.  You get kicked out if you make too much noise in here,” Ron said over his shoulder.

“This is Edmond,” Ron continued loudly over the music.  A tall, skinny guy with blonde hair wearing a tartan shirt with tight black pants and boots turned away from what looked to be a very intense game of beer pong.

“Weasley!” _—_ Edmond high-fived him _—_ “Beer me, bro!”

George cracked a secretive smile at her.  Hermione took another sip and grinned around her straw, before biting at the end.  Idiot frat-boys.

Ron pulled a beer out of one of his cargo pockets and handed it off to Edmond. “Watch out for Yaxley, man,” Ron warned him, “he’s been sinkin’ em all day.”

Edmond scoffed.

Yaxley, a boy with dark skin and a smug smile, chose that moment to fire off a perfect pong shot that sunk into the apex of the solo cups and made the crowd around the table cheer.

Ron tossed Yaxley a beer, who caught it deftly. “Warned you!” he called out to Edmond.

George watched the whole exchange with a smile on his face.  She guessed this wasn’t really what he had expected out of the legacy brothers of Alpha Sigma Phi.  She licked her lips and sipped her tea.  The lemony flavor seemed to get better the more she drank it.

They followed Ron into a room with a huge television and a sectional couch.  “Welcome to the game room,” he told them, “We have everything in here: Xbox, PlayStation, and all the old shit, you know. And you can pretty much always find someone to co-op with.” Gunfire and explosions were pouring out of the sound system while a crowd of guys cheered on one particularly intense-looking boy who wasn’t taking his eyes off the screen.

George snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him and away from one of the more rambunctious frat brothers that was waving his arms around wildly.  She leaned into George contentedly, her face feeling warm and her cup feeling light in her hand.  She ran her fingers absently along the back of his palm.

“You got this, Theo!” someone cheered in the crowd.

“Yo, Nott,” Ron said, leaning over the couch beside the boy with black eyes.

“Hey, Weasley,” Theo said, his eyes glued to the screen. “You seein’ this shit?” Hermione blinked when something exploded violently in the crosshairs on the screen.

“Boom! Headshot!” Ron applauded before setting a beer on the coffee table in front of Theo. “I want to get in on a five v. five game by the end of the night, alright?”

“You got it.  Thanks for the refill, man,” Nott threw over his shoulder.

George’s breath tickled her ear when he leaned in and said quietly, “I might have been wrong.”

“Looks that way,” she said, looking up at him, her facing feeling flushed. His hand was up under her hoodie, his thumb rubbing patterns along her waist over her thin t-shirt.  She took a deep breath and swayed on her feet a little.  His touch felt wonderful—warm and inviting.

Ron pushed open the sliding door to the back patio.  George went to follow him.  “You coming, Granger?”

“Yeah, I’m just going to grab more tea.” She eyed another drink station full of sodas and mixers.

“Alright,” he said before stepping outside.

Hermione pushed aside some of the cans of Coke and bottles of orange juice, grabbed what she was looking for, and filled her glass back up.

She slid the patio door open.  The cool night air felt good on her skin when she stepped out.  She tugged at the zipper on her hoodie and pulled it down before licking her lips.

When she looked across the back patio, her eyes widened.  Ron was upside down with two other guys holding his legs up on top of a barrel.

She tilted her head. “What is he doing?” she asked George.

He smirked at her—everything around him seemed fuzzy. “Keg stand.”

The horrible, blond boy had his megaphone out again. “19! 20! 21!” His voice was _loud_.

Twenty-one seemed like a lot of seconds.

Hermione sipped her tea and smiled widely up at George.  “22! 23! 24!” she joined in.

George laughed and eyed her, his face in focus in a sea of swirling colors.

She sat her cup down on the picnic table on the patio and walked closer.  She cheered for Ron, “27! 28! 29!”  George’s hand was on her back.  She leaned into it. 

_Touch me._

“30!” George was so close—and he was so warm.

 Ron flipped back down and threw his arms up as they cheered.  Hermione cheered too.

Draco held the megaphone back up to his mouth.  “Weasley is Our King!  Weasley is Our King!”

 

* * *

 

 

George dropped his hand from Hermione’s side and laughed loudly at a very green Ron.  He looked back at her. Her eyes were dark and sparkly in the festive lights.  Ron held his stomach while George joined in on the chant, “Weasley is Our King! Weasley is Our King!”

“Oh god, I think I’m gonna be—” Ron bent over the railing and spewed.

“Minus five seconds for puking, Weasley,” Draco teased.

George snorted, “Ron, god.” He helped Ron ease himself down onto the picnic table bench. “Hey, Hermione, do you think you could go get some—” he turned around.

“Hermione?” he called out. “Did you see where she went?” He asked Ron.

“I didn’t see anything after 20,” Ron groaned.  “Malfoy, did you see where my brother’s girlfriend went?”

The blonde looked bored. “Back inside, I’m sure,” he drawled.  He slid his shoulder under Ron’s arm. “Come on, King.  Let’s get you upstairs.  You smell like death.”

George’s stomach dropped.  Hermione’s abandoned red cup sat on the table.  He picked it up and took a sip.

_Fuck._

 

 

* * *

 

The house was a labyrinth.  It had seemed simple earlier, but now, when all she needed was a bathroom, it was impossible to navigate.  Maybe it would be easier if there weren’t so many fucking people cluttering up the hallways.

Damnit, she needed to pee.  Urgently.

Hermione avoided a group of guys and turned her nose up. They reeked of body spray and her stomach lurched.  She overshot her dodge a little and put her hand up on the wall to steady herself.   She scowled in their general direction.

Her head was swimming. There were just so many people—and—and she wasn’t very good at being around people.  She didn’t like being crammed into a building with them. 

She stumbled upon a grand staircase.  Oh!  The second floor probably had bathrooms! And less people!

She scurried up the stairs, happy when the clutter ( _people_ ) started to thin, and the pound of the bass faded away. Her feet were heavy and clunky, almost like she was wearing new boots, even though she had on the same sneakers she always wore. She looked down the long hallway. Bedrooms maybe? Now—where did they put the bathroom?  She did a condensed rendition of the pee dance before yanking a door open.  _Nope._

She closed it and made her way further down the hall.  Every door was a disappointment.  They contained nothing but plaid comforters and broken dreams.

She pouted after her seventh failed attempt and turned the corner.  Another staircase!  She frowned.  But it went back down?  Did she go in a circle?  Was this a different staircase?  She sighed.  She really needed to pee.

But she was so tired.  

She sat down on the top step and leaned her head against the wall.  It was cold.  She smiled and closed her eyes.

She opened her eyes and blinked.  The air was warmer.  Her head felt swimmy.  She scooted back from the stairs.

Stairs were bad right now. 

Dizzy.

How long ago did she leave George?   How long had she sat there?

She was sad—how would she find him again?  The house had taken her now.  There was only this house and endless doors and staircases that lead nowhere.

_Forty fucking rooms but a bathroom ain’t one._

She heard a voice and turned quickly, catching herself on the wall.  Steps she didn’t see before led up.

Up, up, up to the third floor.

 “Did you brush your teeth?” a voice drawled.

“Thoroughly,” someone replied.

“Ah ha!” she gasped. She bet he brushed his teeth in the bathroom! She took a deep breath and steadied herself.  She really wasn’t feeling well.

“Alright, come here,” the first voice urged.

She rounded the corner slowly and pushed the ajar door open.  She tilted her head trying to make sense of it.

There were bodies on the bed.  Clothes were missing.  There were flashes of skin, and the unmistakable sound of kissing—all teeth and tongues.

“ _Fuck, Weasley_ ,” what she thought was a blonde groaned lowly.

The fuzzy bodies flipped over.  “ _Can’t wait anymore_.” 

“I—” Hermione started.

“What the fuck?!” someone yelled.  Both bodies shot up.  In flurry of confusing movement, previously exposed skin was covered.

“Shit.” Ron was suddenly right in front of her. “Hermione, what are you doing up here?”

“Ron!” She smiled brightly when the familiar face came into focus.

“Weasley, my dad.  She can’t—"

Ron waved the person off and held both of her arms gently. “What did you see, Hermione?”

She tilted her head. “What?” she asked dumbly. He wasn’t making sense. She just needed a bathroom. She didn’t care who had hands down someone else’s pants.

“When you came in—”

“I have to pee,” she whined.

“Uhm”—he paused—"when you came in, did you see anything?”

She felt sad. “Ron, I’ve lost George.  I had to pee so I left, and now I don’t know how to get back to him, and this house is too big. And I _still_ haven’t found a bloody bathroom.”

“So…”

“There are so many doors here,” she wept dramatically. “I wanna go home.”

“Man, you’re hammered,” he said, shaking his head, “And I’m pretty drunk, but you are, like, on a whole other level.”

“Yeah, look at her eyes.  She’s fuckin’ gone”—Draco appeared, smiling—“I think we’re okay.”

_Tile!_ Her eyes widened. “Is that a bathroom?”

Ron grinned.  “Yeah, I think you mentioned needing to go a few hundred times.”  He moved out of her way as she ran and shut the door behind her quickly.  She flipped the lock, unbuttoned her jeans frantically, sat down, and—

_Ahhhhhhhhh._

“I feel weird,” she said when she stepped back out into the lavish bedroom.

Ron smiled at her.  “Yeah, well—you’re drunk.”

“I am not!” She stomped her foot and scowled.

“Are too,” Draco said from the bed.

“Now, let’s see if we can put you back where you belong,” Ron fished his phone out of his back pocket.  “Would you look at that?  Five missed calls.”

She raised her eyebrows.  “From who?”

He had already dialed them back. “Hey George.”

“George!” she said happily.

“Yeah, I got her.  We’re on the third floor,” Ron told the phone.  “Alright—see you in a sec.”

She eyed Draco’s bed.  She wanted her own bed. “I’m tired,” she whined.

“Uh huh,” Ron said, grinning at her. 

A few moments later, they heard footsteps in the hallway.

“Ron?” George called out.

“Back here,” Ron hollered back.

George came around the corner, eyes wide and frantic.  “Oh my god—Hermione.”

“I found you!” she exclaimed. _How did she find him?_ She felt clever.

George laughed and pulled her close to him.  “Thanks, Ron.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Now, Miss Granger,” George said playfully. “You are drunk.”

She snorted. “Pshhhhh.  No—I’m not.  We talked about this. I’m nineteen,” she explained, “I can’t drink, George.  _It’s illegal.”_

“Uh huh—so you drank tea, right?” His voice light.

She nodded quietly, her hands up under his jacket.  His skin was warm.  _Hmmm_.

“And that is just really, really cute.” She was happy that it was his face smiling in the little circle that was in focus. “The thing is—Long Island Iced Tea is _not_ tea,” he clarified.

She tilted her head.  Ron cackled loudly.

“What is it?”

“It’s like four shots of liquor and a splash of cola, doll,” George explained.

Her eyes widened. “Oh no, George,” she said, distraught, “ _I’m a criminal.”_

George laughed, his chest rumbling against her fingertips.  “Let’s get out of here.”

“Thank god,” she said, “I’m so sleepy.”

He tossed his arm over her shoulder.  “Thanks for the invite, Ron,” he called out.

“Anytime,” Ron replied with a grin.

 

* * *

 

The air was crisp and cool against her skin.

“It’s cold,” she said, leaning in closer to George while they trudged along the uncharacteristically tilted sidewalks. “And I’m tired.”

He shuffled before she felt his coat heavy on her shoulders.  She snuggled into it and pulled her arms through.

“Want me to carry you?” he suggested.

Big strong arms.

“Yes,” she said honestly, her breath uneven.

“Alright.” He grinned before picking her up, warm biceps under her legs and back.

She settled against his chest.

“This is okay?” he asked her quietly.

“It’s nice,” she mumbled into his shirt. “Am I heavy?”

“Not at all,” he replied.  She rocked back and forth with each step, the world rushing by.

She closed her eyes and breathed in _George,_ hot and clean all around her.

When she opened her eyes again, the staircase door on the first floor had clanged shut behind them.

“I can walk,” she slurred. “Don’t have to carry me up the stairs.”

“You’re fine.  I have you.”

He didn’t set her down until he got to her room.  She leaned her back against the door.

“Do you have keys?” George asked.

She reached in her back pocket, grinning smugly at the accomplishment of finding keys. 

He flipped through them, “Should be a little silver one, right? You have quite the collection—I’m sure you’re very proud.”

She could feel the heat pouring off him.   Everything smelled like him.  Hermione ran her hands up his chest.

As she had suspected, the boy was firm.

He gulped and looked down at her. “ _Hermione_.”

“Does that tea have rum in it?” She stepped closer, resting her body flush against his, and looked up at him with dark, blown eyes.

“Hey,” he whispered, swallowing.

She placed hot, open mouthed kisses up his jawline and let her hands slide down the back of his t-shirt.  Hermione smiled wickedly before nipping at his neck.

“Hermione,” he groaned.  Something clanged against the floor.

“George, please,” she begged. “ _Please_.”

He jumped.  “Hands!” he said loudly, “Hands in fun, new places.” He pulled back from her and took a deep, shuddering breath.

She ran her teeth over her bottom lip.  “ _George_.” She felt dangerous at the moment—reckless. “ _Open the door.”_

“This can’t happen, Hermione,” he told her, looking torn. “Not tonight.”

“Why not?” Her hair was in her eyes, her body was warm, and it was simple.

“You would hate me in the morning,” he explained.

She held his gaze and settled her body against his again.  “But I would love you tonight,” she whispered.

He leaned down and picked her keys back up.  She let her hands trail down his chest again.  He placed his hand atop hers and smiled.  “You’re too far gone, love,” he told her patiently, “and _when you and I happen_ , you’re going to remember it the next day, okay?”

She groaned. “Okay,” she pouted, “but please don’t me wait too much longer.”

“Don’t worry, I’m right there with you.”  He slid the key into her lock with shaking hands.  “Waiting isn’t fun.”

She agreed with a sad nod, her body still warm and aching.

He led her into the room and pulled her comforter back.  “Get in bed, love.”

“Will you stay?” she asked drunkenly.

“I’ll—I can sleep on the floor, if you want,” he compromised.

She nodded happily.

“Be right back,” George said.

Hermione pulled his jacket off followed by her hoodie, dropping them to the floor.  She kicked off her shoes and slid her jeans down to the floor.

She held her hands out and tried to carefully get into bed. 

A strangled noise announced his return.

“So spinny, George,” she complained as the bed lurched.

He set his bedding on the floor. “It’ll be better in the morning,” he said. “We’re just gonna cover you up, okay?”  He pulled her comforter up over her bare legs.

She reached behind her.  “I need it off,” she whined at her bra. “Help me.”

“Well—I d-don’t really think that—"

“Got it.” She pulled her arms into her shirt and rerouted them.  She dropped the pink, lacy deathtrap over the side of the bed. “’Better.”

She watched George as he set up his bed on the floor.  His footing was impressive, the light from her lamp was shaking the floor horribly.

She sighed in relief when he turned it off and settled down beside her.  In the dark, everything stopped moving, but her head was still swirling.  She hated it.  Hermione snuck her hand off the bed and laced her fingers with his.

“Night, love,” George said, squeezing back.

“Goodnight, George.”

 

* * *

 

Sunday morning was bright.

It was sickeningly bright and loud.   Hermione glared at her window.  She started to get up to close the blinds when she noticed him.

George was asleep on the floor.  The small spattering of scars on his face and neck shone in the early light.   His shirt had ridden up, revealing a lean, taut stomach and a trail of hair that disappeared beneath his pajamas.   His red hair was mussed up against his pillow, darting out in a hundred different angles.  His comforter was kicked down to his feet.  She followed his strong legs back up his body, pausing in her observation at an area of interest—

Was that her _bra_?

It was right beside him!  Oh my god! 

She stretched halfway off the bed and grabbed petal pink strap, jerking it up quickly and hiding it under the comforter.

She eyed him another moment before poking him.

He shook awake, blinking up at her.  He sat up with dreadfully messy hair and an adorable smile.  “Hey there.”  His voice was deep and scratchy in the morning.

“Hey,” she said slowly, “why are you in here?”

He sat up straighter with a frown, eyes searching hers.  “How much do you remember from last night?”  He smoothed his hair out, shoving it to the side.

She thought hard.  “We went to the party,” she started.

“Uh huh.”

“And Ron did a keg stand,” she explained.

“Yeah.”

“And he made out with a blonde girl.”

“Good for him.  Then what?”

“Long Island Iced Tea isn’t tea?”

“Right.”

“And… nothing.”

He looked away and rubbed a hand down his face.  “Alright.”

“Did I do anything embarrassing, George?”

He smiled.  “You got me to carry you back because you didn’t want to walk,” he teased. “Up the stairs and everything.”

“I did not,” she protested.

“I’m just joking—I offered,” he said, grinning.

She laid back on her pillow.  “Thank you for taking care of me,” she said, watching him.

“Of course.”

His smile seemed hesitant, his eyes somber and unhappy.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made it through January! In my profession, surviving January is hit or miss.


End file.
